Cassandra and Orion entered the kitchen to find Dad with his guns everywhere – the kitchen table, the counter tops, and even a few atop the refrigerator. He grunted a greeting while inspecting an assault rifle near the spice rack.

The bird clock was just striking 4pm – filling the makeshift war room with the vibrant song of the American goldfinch. Normally, Mom would be preparing for dinner, not Dad for war, so the plan of barging in and proclaiming that Orion needed to go to the hospital began to die in Cassandra’s throat.

“Why are you late?” Dad said in his curious voice – one of his more dangerous ones.

“Orion wasn’t feeling–” Cassandra began, but then Mom bustled in carrying boxes of ammunition.

“No space here,” said Dad. “Munitions go in the living room.”

“Why are you late?” Mom demanded. “I called the school, and they said you’d gone on some kind of field trip with Principal Wexler.”

“It’s Wixler,” corrected Dad. To Cassandra and Orion: “I need you to start clearing out the attic. Make space for the sniper rifles next to both windows – enough room for me to lie down comfortably.”

“No… It’s Wexler,” said Mom in her pretending-to-have-patience voice – one of her more dangerous ones. “I know because I’ve seen it written down. Orion, take these bullets to the living room and start unloading the rest from the gun closet.”

Dad put his hand on Orion’s shoulder so he couldn’t move and encumbered him with an assault rifle. “This can go in the attic too. It may be spelled Wexler, but it’s pronounced Wixler.”

“The French say Pah-ree even though it’s spelled Paris,” Mom pointed out, giving her boxes of ammunition to Cassandra.

“You’re just proving my point,” said Dad.

“No, you’re proving mine,” said Mom.

This was about as far as Cassandra could follow their logic because, as usual, it began to unravel. To rot. One of them pointed out that “when in Rome” you only say Pah-ree if you want to “sound like an asshole.” To which the other responded calling someone an asshole in front of the kids was “a great way to welcome them home from school” and “truly fine parenting.” Then, they started referencing stuff – like the “Poisson/Poison Debacle” (something that Cassandra gathered had happened on their honeymoon in France), the “Car Running Out of Gas that Christmas” (which Dad maintained was “both of their faults”), and the “Spaghetti Situation” (which made Mom start to cry).

“Is Grandpa dead?” said Cassandra.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

And, Hallelujah, there was silence again.

***

Tassadu advocated that they “shouldn’t just do nothing” so persistently that Aissaba finally agreed – if only because it was barely 4:30pm and she wasn’t tired anymore. So they donned a pair of black robes hanging in the closet (the Rot Fortress uniform, apparently) and crept out of their room. The bone collector followed.

In the hallway, they listened for sounds of snoring but heard nothing. You think he’s in there? asked Aissaba’s raised eyebrows.

Said he would be, answered Tassadu.

“It’s a bit early to be sleeping,” said Aissaba when they exited cat-Styxx’s suite and began to descend the stone staircase.

“He’s a cat,” Tassadu pointed out. “Not to mention, it was nighttime on the Rot planet.”

They exited the building into the courtyard and tried to look normal. It helped that they weren’t the only ones with their hoods pulled low, nor the only ones who had a bone collector with them. Some collectors, approximating birds or bats, perched on robed shoulders; others, like monkeys, clung to arms or belts; others followed like dogs or cats. All clicked as they moved and possessed a pebble heart of glowing brown.

As far as the citizens of the Rot Fortress were concerned, most went about their business in reverent silence – as if lost in thought. They milled about in the marketplace and came and went from the various buildings – including the big one in the middle. The Spire of Rot, perhaps it was called.

As for eye-contact, it didn’t seem to be in vogue around here. Unlike back home, where the Fortress cafeteria was full of shouts of recognition and the boisterous cross-talk of a community where everyone knew everyone, people here acted more like strangers who just happened to be shopping at the same mall.

When people did speak, it was in small, close-knit groups. Most chatted in whispers of languages Aissaba didn’t recognize. When a snatch of English came to them on the wind, she and Tassadu moved in that direction, like animals seeking food.

In a queue for one of the market stalls, they stood behind three robed figures with hoods up. Each had a snake-like bone collector draped around their necks like a sash. The two larger figures had lobster pincers and octopus tentacles for hands, respectively, and the other (several inches shorter than Aissaba) was too deeply buried in an oversized robe to reveal anything.

“...It’s south of Montana,” said Octopus Tentacles.

“Wyoming?” said Lobster Pincers.

“The other one.

“Idaho?”

“Yeah… I think so. Then, down to Utah and Arizona. Pretty journey, but busy as hell.”

“Arizona… Arizona… Hold on,” said Lobster, trying to recall something. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the one that used to be Mexica.”

“Pretty sure it’s Mexi-co,” said Octopus, chuckling.

The smallest one entered the conversation simply by buzzing – as if its entire oversized robe was stuffed with bees.

Lobster and Octopus both nodded. “Good point,” one of them said. And the conversation ended.

Although Aissaba wasn’t fluent in the buzzing of bees – she had a funny feeling that she understood what point had just been made: that the words for these places would soon be irrelevant. And although she herself couldn’t exactly remember which states had once been Mexica/Mexico either (and she didn’t particularly care) – she found herself mildly horrified that everything she had refused to learn in the Master of Language’s history lessons might soon be moot.

She glanced at Tassadu, who was – as expected – looking at her with eyes that said, I told you so.