Yeah, Garbage was keeping me back, but when Gus invited me out to that gay rights rally, he pulled me right away, right out of Garbage’s hands. The energy of that demonstration, a whole crowd of us, all outraged by how we’d been shunted off in the name of the tradition of shunting people off. It’s a kind of family I guess. When you can look at anybody there and think to yourself ‘that girl has known what I’ve known. That guy has felt what I’ve felt.’ That’s how it was for me anyway. It was that family reunion energy, combined with our mutual frustration about the unfair establishment. It shot me up with honeyed courage, enough to really move into Gus.

Our first kiss, on our first date, was my first experience with anything I’d call romance. We were there in the crowd, in that mix of backpacks, flyers, wild shouts, weed smoke, air that gusted cold then hot from bodies all around. A speaker chanted pithy phrases we all echoed back. Between the shouts of indignation and the talk all around us of a better future, I brought myself and Gus back to the present. That day Garbage wasn’t around much. I don’t know if he was sulking about me getting what I wanted, or maybe giving me space out of respect. He’s fickle like that sometimes. Either way I felt I had a stronger voice right then. Like I really could speak with the mouths of every member of the crowd.

I wrapped my arm around the man I’d come to love and pressed my lips to his. We were both sweaty, hoarse from shouting, our muscles were tense and minds electric. But the kiss itself, though it started as this firm concentration of gusto and courage, melted me away, like a creme brulee broken through to sweet saccharine warmth. When I felt his hands on my waist, well... it’s indescribable I think. It felt like he knew me. Not like he was a close friend that knew all about me, but like he knew me from within me. A place where I’d only known Garbage. Shit, sorry, I’m just getting caught up in it, man I did warn you, it was a good date, it was good. And the whole rest of freshman year was good too. Gus and I went steady after that. My first and only boyfriend.

I was dumb and romantic. Gus was strong and practical. He always liked to talk about our future. He seriously could go on for hours, speculating, spinning out these grand fantastic scenes of us in five years, us in decades, us with kids or if we didn’t want them, off to travel. Europe, South America, Australia, wherever. I was more caught up in the present. Where we’d be next week or right then. But I loved to hear him talk about us. All those plans would make me feel like what we had was so immense and solid, bedrock for a line of moments stretched out into the future. When it really got serious, and we ironed out some early relationship wrinkles, I started picking up the classes he was taking, including a theater design class. I followed him in but it was just to be around him more. He loved it. He put everything that wasn’t focused on me right into that class.

The theater kids that year were putting on a show called ‘Into the Woods’ and the props we were making were all these kinds of fantasy world things, beanstalks, magic staffs, that kind of stuff. The set was overdone on purpose, giant magic trees, tall towers, a gloomy forest backdrop. Designing all that was a weird blend of living in a technical world of measurements and methods, and a fragmented fairytale that lay in pieces and scraps on our workshop’s tables. One of the many days Gus and I spent staying late to work on the perfect costume or a broken prop, I was sitting in a papasan chair in the corner with a mound of homework from my creative writing class, watching him work. He had a big foam board laid out on the worktable that he was painting to look like old wood.

“Gus we’ve been dating for half a year now right?” I was looking at him over the laptop I held. He turned from his work for a moment, just enough to catch my eye then back.

“Seven months.” He confirmed. He made a long smooth stroke with his brush.

“And you always say we’ll be together forever, like when we’re old and fucked up looking we’ll still be in love and all that?” Gus dipped his brush back into his paint and prodded it around a bit, smiling.

“Yeah and I believe it too.”

I let the hum of the air conditioner punctuate my premise. The comforting smell of paint and sanded foam mingled with the aroma of chai tea from the steaming mug next to Gus’s work. He looked up at me. I was squinting curiously at him and biting my lip. He plopped his brush into the water dish with the others and walked around the broad table to where I sat.

“What’s on your mind [garbage]? Got cold feet?” He came to rest at my side and raised his hand to play lightly with my hair. I closed my eyes and felt his work-warm fingers tracing little lines across my head. My fingers found his other hand.

“You know that I don’t.” I said. “I’m just thinking about how things are, you know?”

“I don’t know. Not unless you tell me. Can’t read minds.” He tapped the top of my head lightly. It took me a good solid ounce of courage I didn’t have to say what I was planning to say. Garbage was hauling at my coattails, really shouting it up about risk and safety. But I pushed forward. Ever since Gus and I had gotten together it had grown easier to do that. Act against Garbage’s advice I mean.

“I think we should be more together now. Like, live together. If you want.” Now was Gus’s turn to speak with silence. His hand stopped its stroking and dropped down from my hair, where it joined his other to wrap mine in a hot blanket, and a little squeeze.

“I would love that.” He said.

Suddenly the paint smell was intoxicating. The papasan chair was a gold throne. I pulled my hands out from his and wrapped my arms around his hips, pulling him off balance and into me. He laughed that tidal laugh, washing my inner beach smooth, then leaned down to kiss me softly. The planes of his lips gathered mine up and I felt his rough stubble against my chin. I think that might have been the safest I’d felt in my life up to that moment. It was just as if we had built ourselves a house right there in the art room, and not just that we’d be sharing one together in the near future.

____________________________________________________________________________

[garbage] is still sitting against the wall, but he’s stuffed the plastic mattress that had served as a lean-to behind his back. Madeline clears her throat and uncrosses her legs. The heel of her shoe clacks against the floor, a counterpoint to the sound of her clicking the metal pen closed. [garbage], who was watching the back corner of the wall during most of his story, is now gazing at his dirty hands which rest on his lap, palms up and empty.

“Well,” Madeline says. Her voice sounds oddly loud to [garbage] “I think it’s best for us to take a break now, while we’re ahead. I don’t want to overwhelm you like last time. She stands up and [garbage] watches her adjust her shirt and flip the pages back over to the front of her clipboard. “I’m glad you’re feeling safe enough to share with me like you are though. It’s good progress.” She moves industriously but looks down at garbage with a sympathetic frown. [garbage] straightens from his rumination and begins to rise up himself, encouraged by the type of professional courtesy that accompanies the end of a meeting.

“Yeah, sure.” He says softly. “So uh, how long am I going to be here do you think?” Madeline’s answering smile is consoling.

“That’s a question for your doctor I’m afraid. He’ll be the one to authorize your discharge.” It's more of an intonation than a statement. A line read by rote, ragged at its edges from overuse.

“Right.” answers [garbage]. “Well I’ll see you then.”

Madeline leaves him to his room. When she’s gone, he spreads the crumpled mattress in the corner back onto his wooden bed. The sheet, which is a spiralled up rope stretched across the floor, he untwines and spreads out on top, tucking it under the edges. Then he flips off the light switch by the door and lays himself down, head firmly resting at the foot of the bed, where he can keep an eye on the corner, where the wall meets the ceiling. He watches it for a while, breaths coming long and deep, eyes slowly drifting closed. Before he falls completely asleep, he whispers something, sharp like a parent’s accosting. Like the cracking of ice.

“Because I will find him.” He says. The muffled sound of a crying girl a few rooms away is his only answer.

____________________________________________________________________________

[I wake in darkness, wrapped in a double wide sleeping bag. It’s confining, so I push it down to free myself. The whole pup tent is confining. I rise quietly and undo the flap. The night is cold and the air is wet. I put his shoes on and walk out to where they had their fire last night. The chairs are still circled around the dead ash, their aluminum frames stark against the moonlit coast. His phone informs me that Gus has still not made contact. I don’t think he will. We’ll have to find him ourselves. Again.

I walk to the little stream nearby. My breath is just visible in the faint light. I know where I need to go. Where Gus will probably already be. I crouch over the surface of the clear water and reach out to dip my fingers just under it, feeling the icy water rush around them. Then I hold myself still. Just feeling the tension in my muscles, the effort of my position. To help me focus, I close my eyes. I think about who I am, about who [garbage] is, and every part of the line between us. Each frustration, each concession. I know the link we have, in my meditation I see that link as a cold long crystal. The water that surrounds my finger begins to grow colder. The link is bright. The way I see him fail, the way he wants me to pull away. The constant need for some semblance of closeness that each of us has. His rush toward it, my shrinking back.

I feel the crystals form around my still fingers. The ache of frozen water numbs me. I pour more thought into my visualization. My frustration with confinement. His hatred of my agency. I hear the sound of ice. The groans of its growth. My hand is stuck firmly in the frozen stream. I take the final step in fleshing out my contemplation, shading and coloring the link. My helpless need for him to lead me out of my prison of fear. His dependence on my hesitation for guidance.

It’s done. I open my eyes. Before me in the stream there is a glittering circle of thick ice, with my hand frozen into the middle. Water rushes under and around it. I pull my arm up sharply, out from the disk, shattering a hole in its center. A bright light pours out from this opening, shining up and illuminating the little campsite. In its white gold rays the cloud of cold air billows out over the stream like early morning fog. I work my cold hand in my other, rubbing warmth and feeling back into it. Then, with a wary look back at the tents, I step over the bank, across a patch of grass crunchy with frost, and into the light.

I feel the brisk chill of the bore against my skin, then the hard stones of the castle under my feet. It’s morning. The rose gold light slants through windows set high in the grand walls. Zachariah is standing at his orrery, setting and resetting the many colored glass beads within its intricate brass rod structure. If he’s seen me arrive, he doesn’t acknowledge me. I walk toward him, across the bare smooth floors, taking in again the scents of his haven, the sage and rose, the cold bright alcohol of the white cup.

“Your highness.” I say when I arrive at the table.

“Not yours.” He doesn’t look up.

“I’m looking for Gus.” I continue.

“You’re always looking for Gus.” He takes up the white goblet at his side and sips from it carefully. “Garbage.” He says, and replaces the vessel among a spray of red and black beads. “My friend… The network is strong. It’s better now than before. And for that I am grateful to you. But I can’t help you now. If he’s come through, I haven't solved for it yet. Maybe you’ll check again. Maybe then.” He takes a white bead and fixes it into one of the clamps at the end of a rod in the structure, then rotates it smoothly around until it clicks into place next to a black one.

The orrery is a massive thing. An impenetrable web of spheres and rods, every part flexible, every link meticulous. Zachariah idly clicks two of its beads in his hand, watching it with an intense burning focus. He swings another rod, places another bead. The king is a striking man. If indeed he is human. He is naturally beautiful, with pale skin that seems somehow to absorb light rather than reflect it, despite its brightness, and a graceful wave of dark black hair. His eyes, always half closed and forever bored, only light up when he is watching and working with his metal contraption, the beast of his own devising which consumes him every waking hour. He is draped in fine silk, a long coat and flowing pants, both the deep red of overripe apples. He looks up from his project, appraising me with his empty golden eyes, just as one would look at a wall, long enough to see it, then away.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“I’ll write you into a book.” He says. “If he comes into the work.” Then silence. Back into the thrall of his metal model. Placing a bead here, removing one there. Swinging a brass rod around, screwing another into place.

“I’ll keep an eye out.” I say. The king waves a hand dismissively, eyes still locked on his beads, face still blank. The sharp echoes of my footsteps down the length of the room again intermingle with the occasional clicks from Zachariah’s work. Before I reach my bore I hear the clicks stop.

“Oh Garbage.” He says, his voice raised and reverberating in the cavernous room. I turn to him again. “If you’d care for a drink.” He raises the pristine glass cup from his station.

“Not this time.” I answer. He replaces it silently, neither pleased nor disappointed.]

____________________________________________________________________________

The moment [garbage] woke up he dug his phone out from his pocket, praying to the Universe that Gus had checked in. He let his hands and the phone fall and hissed a reprimand for his unanswered petition. The warm sleeping bag was overlarge, meant for two. His tent felt empty. He could hear Coral and Don outside talking, could smell woodsmoke and bacon. He rolled out from the ensnaring reminder of his boyfriend’s absence and undid the tent flap to join the two of them.

“Any word?” Coral asked when he emerged. [garbage] shook his head. “Oh no..” she said. She was seated in one of the camp chairs by the fire, a paper plate balanced on her legs. “I hope nothing happened to him.”

Don was crouching by the fire, on which he had placed a cast iron pan. It sizzled with burbling eggs and bacon.

“He might have fallen asleep at the workshop.” He suggested. “Or else his car broke down and his phone died.”

[garbage] lowered himself to the chair opposite Coral. He felt exhausted already.

“Simplest explanation that fits the facts.” He said, placing his face in his hands. His leg jumped with anxiety. “I don’t know if it’s even worth checking the shop you know? He’s probably high back at our place. Or at Zach’s.”

Don stood up from his cooking and fixed a plate for [garbage] before sitting himself.

“Well wherever you check, I’m staying here.”

“Donny!” Coral shot him an exasperated look over her food.

“Somebody has to,” he answered calmly. “In case he decides to show up. Besides I’m getting used to the quiet here.”

Coral softened back into her chair.

“I told you you’d like it.” Said [garbage]. “It’s the most beautiful place.” There was a blessed moment of silence. Birds in the trees wove their songs through his thoughts. “Alright.” [garbage] said at length. “I have to go back. Coral would you come with me? Is that okay?” he looked frayed. Desperate

“Of course I will. I don’t want you doing this alone.” She said.

[garbage] felt a pang of warmth even among all the cold anger and worry.

“Thanks Coral. Then we’ll both head out as soon as you’re ready. We’ll try the workshop first since that’s where he said he’d be, then home. And if he’s not there-” The fire danced bright between them, fizzing from the bacon grease Don was pouring into it. “We’ll have to check Zach’s house.” His heart felt heavy. His hands were shaking but his eyes itched with exhaustion. “I’m sorry guys.” he said quietly. “This was supposed to be a fun weekend off together, not another chase.”

Don spoke up between oily bites of his breakfast, his lips and fingers shining: “Yeah.”

Coral groaned at him.

“It’s not your fault [garbage], obviously. This is more important than whatever, you know? I’d rather be helping you out than anything else.

“Sure.” [garbage] said. “Well thanks anyway, again. I’d probably go crazy without you two.”

“[garbage] you’re already crazy.” Don pointed out. [garbage] laughed despite himself.

“More crazy then. Full crazy.” He said.

They finished their breakfast in silence.

____________________________________________________________________________

“Am I crazy?” [garbage] asks. His voice is soft but it carries a weight, top heavy with worry and doubt. A doctor is sitting across from him, at the other side of a chipped wooden table, watching him over a laptop. The doctor has a neatly trimmed mustache and gold wire frame glasses that look tastefully expensive. His mouth is small and stressed. He’s breaking out of middle age, his tan face is wrinkled and frowning.

“Crazy is a very general term without much use in the world of mental health.” He says. His voice is reedy and thin.

“That sounds like something you’d say to a crazy person.” [garbage] says. The doctor smiles and leans back a bit.

“Because you’ve been struggling with psychotic episodes, I’m going to prescribe you a medication called (_____). Now with this medication you might notice some lethargy, some increase in appetite. I’ll print up a full list of the more uncommon side effects as well. You can read it and write down any questions you think of, for when I see you tomorrow.” He speaks with his hands. A gold ring flashes in the sterile fluorescent light. “I’m here every weekday so we’ll be talking a lot.” [garbage] bounces his leg as he listens, staring down at his own still dirty fingers. He’s playing with a worn down fat-tipped little stump of a pencil. The ample square chair below him rocks slightly on uneven legs.

“How long am I going to be in here?” He asks. The doctor leans forward and expels a gust of stale air from his nose.

“That’s a good question [garbage]. Right now you’re here on a hold, which I set yesterday when you regained cognition enough to speak with Madeline. I’d like to see how you respond to the medication, so I’ll tell you what, for now why don’t you focus on finding some hygiene habits; if you feel like it you can join your fellow patients in the day room for lunch, and we hold groups every day that you can attend. Those are the kind of things I look for when I’m assessing when to discharge.” The doctor pushes back his chair and he begins to shuffle the papers laid out on his desk. He closes his laptop gently. “Do you have any other questions for me?” [garbage] mutely shakes his head.

As soon as he’s ushered from the room he makes a beeline to the nearest nurse.

“Hi, how do I take a shower?” He asks. The nurse is a half familiar face, a broad shouldered man with deep black skin and a ready smile.

“Hello [garbage], how are you doing today?” His musical voice is roundly accented. It sounds like sugar syrup on warm bread. [garbage] glances down to the name badge at his chest.

“I’m not about to complain I guess. Daniel? You were set to guard me yesterday weren’t you?” Daniel’s smile broadens.

“We did hang out together for a while, yes.” He says. “How is your writing going?”

“I’ve definitely written better.” [garbage] replies. He makes a faintly pained face. Daniel’s laugh is a burbling soft sound. Like a languorous stream. He stands and ushers for [garbage] to follow, then opens a closet using a key from the ring at his belt. Once [garbage] is equipped with two small towels and an all purpose soap bottle, he’s sent again on his way with an encouraging smile.

The shower has a button which produces a sputtering stream of tepid water for about ten seconds per press. It sheets off of [garbage] and runs dark into the drain. He performs a dance of button presses, scrubbing, and occasional dodging back when the temperature changes suddenly, in quick sure motions. Once or twice, from out of a stream of foam pouring over his face, or when he’s scrubbing between his toes and keeping a hand up on the silver button, he hisses out a word or two between his teeth. An argument with the moist air. Insults hurled into the spray.

Finally, scrubbed raw, red and glowing, he dries off and redresses in a fresh pair of scrubs. He stands at the foot of his bed drying his hair and gazing down at the crisp sheets below. There are two folded sheets of paper in the middle of the blue white linen. The first is a guide to his medication, printed in a soothing blue to match his bedding. There’s a monochromatic image of a woman in its background, gazing serenely at him past the bold font (_____) logo. Below that is a list of perilous afflictions, which the heading assures him are all ‘very rare’. Several varieties of death are included.

He’s about to put it down when he sees a line of smaller text, in a different font, squeezed between ‘severe rash’ and ‘coma’. It’s printed in an archaic looking calligraphic typeset and reads only ‘find a book’.

“Find a book.” [garbage] says to himself. He peers at the words for a moment.

The other sheet is a schedule, with groups listed out for every hour. The next hour, eleven AM, reads “coping skills”. He folds the schedule and tucks it into his pocket, then scans the first paper again for the strange words he saw between the lines. They aren’t where he saw them. Only ‘rash’ and ‘coma’. He flips it over and back. No sign of anything out of place. Only the soothing pale blue of legally required information.

“Find a book.” He mutters again.

The coping skills group is essentially a presentation. [garbage] lounges in another of the ubiquitous heavy wooden chairs and watches while a middle aged white man reads with surprising energy from a stapled packet. As he listens he watches the people around him. His ‘fellow patients’, as the doctor put it. One asian man with a stern look seems rapt and attentive, sitting with hands folded at a wooden table, watching the presenter without so much as a blink. He has a notebook laid open in front of him. Every half minute or so he turns to look at [garbage], which isn’t too remarkable except he doesn’t seem to keep tabs on anyone else.

[garbage] tries not to make eye contact. Instead he watches a willowy gaunt faced girl next to him, sitting cross-legged with a sketchbook in her lap. She’s leaning in close to it, shading a colorful bouquet of wildflowers with a fine tipped marker. She stands out from the rest, and not just because of her incredible waist length soft pink hair. When she looks up to scan the room she watches the other patients with a half concealed wonder. Exactly as if she’s watching a group of deer graze by a stream. A quiet privileged observance.

When the speaker wraps up his lecture and departs, the room comes to life. Some leave, some stay and start talking amongst themselves. The stern man at the table begins writing in his book. A cluster of three women laugh by a plastic drink cart near the door. One woman is seated primly on an office chair in the back of the room. She has a feathery mane of blonde hair wrangled away from her face with large plastic clips. A messy pack of ID cards hangs on a lanyard around her neck, [garbage] pegs her as a staff member. She busily chews her gum and notes something down on a clipboard.

“Hi I’m coral.” [garbage] hears from next to him. The girl with the flower drawing is looking up at him, her marker now tucked behind her ear. She’s extending her thin long fingers to him with a dreamy smile.

“[garbage],” he says back, taking up her hand. It’s cold, and feels even thinner than it looks.

“I’m trans.” She says conversationally. “And an aquarius, thank god.” [garbage] is relieved to find he can still laugh.

“I’m gay.” He answers. “And a cancer. A cancer to everyone I meet.” Coral lazily tips her head back, smiling and eyes half closed.

“Well welcome to the party [garbage]. We have all the decaf you can drink, and no hope for escape. Plus balloons.” She closes her sketchbook and stretches her arms out. “Only we’re all out of balloons. I keep meaning to ask about that.” Her hands drop down with a thump over the book. “What brings you here to the sunny side of psychiatric care?”

“They tell me I was trying to live in a walmart. I guess I pitched a tent in the middle of sporting goods and everything. Anyway I don’t remember it but that’s what they say. How bout you?”

Coral is as genial and chipper as if they were talking about lovely weather, or dog breeds:

“I got really drunk and told my sister I was going to kill myself. Hey I don’t remember mine either, maybe we met up and planned the whole thing together.”

A deep curt voice cuts into their conversation:

“[garbage]? I overheard you talking, is that your name?” The stern looking man from the table stands over them, his face serious.

“Yeah that’s my name.” [garbage] says. “You’re kind of interrupting a bit you know.” The man’s expression doesn’t flicker.

“I’m Don. Sorry to butt in. I just thought you might want this.” In his extended hand is a small book. [garbage] takes it without thinking. To his surprise the little black volume is noticeably cold to the touch. It feels as though it was just removed from a snowbank, or left in a car through a winter’s night. He flips through the pages. All blank.

“It’s a journal.” Don says. “They’re good to have.”

Something about the slow way Don speaks, and his brooding dark face, communicates an ephemeral gravity [garbage] isn’t quite sure is meant to be there. He tucks the journal under his arm and thanks Don, who makes his exit silently. The book remains cold even against the warmth of his chest and arm.

“Weird.” [garbage] mutters when Don is gone.

“That was very nice of him,” Coral says happily. “I use this sketchbook my sister gave me. I’m more of a drawer than a writer. Not enough words I think.”

Despite the cold question tucked under his arm, [garbage] is very soon taken up in the colorful whirlwind that is conversation with Coral. She speaks with the same mystical reverence and joy about everything from the food in the ward, “I’m on a special diet. Vegetarian, I have to say they do a really good job on the beans here. Much better than jail.” The other patients, “Becca is my best friend here I think, except for you of course. Oh and Rose.” To things [garbage] is sure have no relation to either the topics that come before or after, “It’s taken me five years going to the same spot in those woods but it’ll eat right out of my hand now. I hope it doesn’t go hungry while I’m here. I named it clover.”

[garbage], for his part, found it easy to be open with her in return, which wasn’t his usual experience with a new face. He soon chats with her as familiarly as with a sister. They stick together through lunch and the rest of the groups of the day. After the last group, Coral lends him her sketchbook ‘for journaling inspiration’. He takes it to his room and looks through it, sitting at the foot of his bed. It’s filled with impressionist marker drawings of mostly nature. But in between the colorful flowers, gnarled trees, and waving fields, there is the occasional dark drawing, always of the same subject: a spider’s web, suspended in the black void of space, with a curling gray worm woven through its strands. Folded and splayed human figures dot the web.

[garbage] closes the book. He picks up Don’s journal again and flips through its pages. They’re yellowed around their edges. When they flutter he feels a cool wind issuing from them.

“Find a book.” He says again to himself. A black mark flutters by, in the center of a page, and is gone before he can stop flipping. His stomach twists. When he turns back through the journal it’s as blank as ever. He lays it down on the bed.

“I found a book.” He says, to no one.

He hears it before he sees it on the glowing white-yellow pages. The unmistakable tiny sound of squeaks and ticks. The sound of ice forming.

Then the page blooms out with frost. It reaches its spidery fingers, painting snowflakes and webbed patterns across the page, then beyond it.

[garbage] jumps back from the bed, his heart racing. At just the moment when the vaporous crystals reach the outer edges of his bed, when [garbage] is about to decide to abandon the room altogether, Coral walks in through the door behind him. She’s still looking out into the hall for a moment.

“[garbage] I’m not supposed to go in your room but-”

She sees the bed.

“What-” She begins.

“Fuck, I don’t know!” [garbage] answers. “The book Don gave me..” They both watch the frost crawl its way out from the bed. It seems to be reaching for them.

“Beautiful.” Coral says softly. She walks to the bed and leans over it, stepping right onto the new sparkling ice carpet that’s branching its way out across the floor. The crystals crunch under her feet. She reaches out and drags one long finger across the book’s page, then turns to [garbage], smiling.

“It’s like-”

The floor beneath her shatters and she falls through, into a jagged hole. [garbage] yells out to her, steps closer, but she’s gone. He hears her shriek of surprise cut off, as if she’s hung up a phone. The sharp hole in the floor remains. Warm light issues up from it, flickering slightly. The frost continues to make its way toward him. For a moment of silence and shock he watches its approach, then he walks forward. More chunks of floor break away and spin into darkness. [garbage] braces himself, trying to peer over the edge. He sees Coral below, lying on a stone floor, but moving.

“Coral?” [garbage] tries to call down to her. She rises to a seat. He can see her face, looking up at him. Her eyes are wide but she wears a small smile too. Her lips move but she’s silent. More of the floor breaks away and he watches it dissolve in the air like snow dropped into a stream. Then he loses his footing and falls backward. He lands hard on his hip and reaches to find a hold in the slippery frozen floor, but his grasping hands slip against it, his fingers curling uselessly.

He slides through.