“Oh, just do it correctly this time!” Marcie demanded. “You and I both know you can hit harder than that.”

Clouds had shrouded the late evening sky over Milo J. Jameson Wildlife Park. They were tucked away in the far outskirts of the Cove. Locals often called it “the Cove”. And locals called Milo J. Jameson “the Park”. Most people of the Cove made the apt decision to steer clear of the Park when the sun began to set, brought on by the irrational fear of getting murdered in the dark woods or the very rational fear of a run in with a bear or a beehive. Though, considering what Marcie insisted was the nature of her passing, Hunter reexamined the fear of murder as a potentially very rational fear to have.

“I’m not going to punch you!” Hunter argued, “This feels like domestic violence.”

Marcie cricked her neck, making an audible cracking sound. Not from Hunter’s doing, no. He had yet to even hit her hard enough to hurt a baby. Her spine was still slowly aligning itself from being folded into the suitcase so she could be wheeled to the car. Hunter checked around every tree within a mile to confirm their privacy before he unzipped the suitcase and she’d unfolded.

She’d gotten much more comfortable in her new-old body, it seemed. She wasn’t having any trouble walking, though she complained on the way through the woods that the three socks they had to layer onto her degloved foot made her shoe feel all sweaty. Without nerve endings there, how she had any capability to sense that was beyond Hunter.

“It’s not domestic violence if I give you my express consent to punch me as hard as you can,” Marcie said resolutely. She did her best Street Fighter impression and taunted Hunter with a ‘come on’ motion.

Hunter refused to be baited, “That can’t be how that works.”

“Just do it.” She sighed.

He balled his fist and convinced himself he wouldn’t hurt her. For Christ’s sake, she was crumpled in a ball minutes ago and was shrugging it off with a couple of back stretches. He took stock of where he should hit. Avoid the ribs cause they might break off. Avoid the face—that'd be uncalled for. He aimed the swing for her upper arm where there was the least exposed flesh and bone under her clothing. Knuckles cracked against her flexing muscle. Judging from her reaction, the punch hurt him more than it hurt her.

“Nothing?” He asked.

She looked down at her arm and shook her head. If she was surprised herself, Hunter couldn’t tell. Instead, a look of wonder spread across her.

“Do you have a knife or something sharp?” There was a concerning twinkle in her eye.

Hunter crossed his arms in protest. “Absolutely not.”

“Ugh, fine!” She whined. “Well it confirms one theory I had. Onto the next.”

The implications swam around Hunter’s mind. If she’d barely felt a full force punch to the arm, what other sensations could she no longer feel? Marcie started walking among the trees like she was analyzing them. She ran her fingers across the trunks, prompting Hunter to question what she felt as she did. Could she feel the stringy Redwood bark with only a slight brush? Could she tell they were damp with more than the visual indicators? Would her body even react to the poison oak she was stepping in?

And in an instant, plenty more questions were raised when Marcie raised her fist and plowed it straight through the tree trunk. She’d chipped out a significant chunk of the bark, revealing the light flesh of the cambium layer. Her fist was mangled from making it a human sledgehammer.

“Woah!” The exclamation left her and she stared blankly, breathing heavy at the results of her insane ‘experiment’.

For a moment. Or many moments. Maybe too many moments, all Hunter could do was stare. Then his mind spun his body into action.

“Oh God!” Hunter rushed over to her and cradled her hand. It was just as blown apart as the tree. Fingers bent in every which direction, splinter shards protruded from her skin like porcupine quills, and there was a gnarly tear in her flesh that bisected her ring finger and pinky away from the other three. “Are you okay?”

She gasped to catch her breath for a moment. “Yeah.” Then started picking the splinters from her hand. As her finger straightened, the seam of torn flesh began stitching itself back together. As this process took place, the wood shards expelled themselves until her hand looked as it did just moments ago. The sight of it took all the air from him and he felt rocketed back to earth.

“There was nothing about this in the book. How did you figure this out?” Hunter asked.

“Simple logic, baby!” She said, absolutely pleased with herself. “The only thing that stops you from breaking apart your own body is the sensation of pain. I don’t think I have that anymore. And then, if my body rapidly heals and corrects my bones, why not skin and muscle? I can punch with literally all my strength!”

What was this even applicable to? She’d sooner tear her own body apart finding its limits than actually start fist-fighting crime in the streets of Redwood Cove, home of such evil-doers as petty shoplifters and one-off weed dealers…and a murderer. “But–” Hunter protested. And he could feel his breath shortening again.

“No te preocupes, ejote.” Marcie said, mockingly, reaching up to boop Hunter's nose with her fully reformed hand to top it all off. He had no words.

At the very least, the use of his nickname—string bean—made him want to try smiling. Years ago, before Marcie and him were officially dating, she'd met his Grandpa Lankester. He'd comment up and down about how Hunter was all just skin and bones. ‘Gotta get some meat on that string bean’ he’d say to Mom. A bit ironic coming from a man whose nickname was Grandpa Lanky, but Marcie found it funny so it stuck. The memory calmed him, grounded him, but that feeling was slow to spread.

Her face softened. “I wanted to show you that you have nothing to worry about. I mean, look at me. No one's gonna know it's me. And I can't feel pain. I’m going to be okay. But I know you're anxious and you're trying to hide it from me. I can tell you don’t actually want to help me with this.”

Those accusations were crushing. He couldn’t stop thinking about Grant’s implication that Marcie had killed herself, and the guilt was nauseating. He should tell her. Marcie had refused to entertain that theory even back on the beach. With the knowledge that she could now punch through solid logs, Hunter was scared to think that her reaction could be destructive if he brought it up again. She’d never hurt him, but she’d be so upset.

He had to find a proper place to sit. His heart was pounding and he couldn’t help but feel like everything was getting away from him, like he was running to the bus stop only to watch the doors close and the bus barrel off into the distance. So he plopped down hard on the nearest fallen log. “Part of me hoped…I don’t know…once I got you back we could just spend time together and relax. You know, finally get a chance to do things right. I can’t believe I even—I mean you’re back from the dead! It’s stupid I thought that things could be normal. And now there’s all this about you getting murdered! Marcie, that's insane! I want to believe you, but…”

Along the log, Marcie sat close and beckoned Hunter to lay his head across her lap. Sundown had come in full and so too did the chirping of crickets. In the moments before Marcie responded, Hunter lay in silence looking up at her. He couldn’t say it. Maybe it would be better if she found out on her own. She stroked his curly hair and looked out to the darkened woods.

Once she had her mind set on something, Marcie was a speeding train. It was better to be on board than trying to chase after her.

“The other day. When I went to the store, I saw Grant,” admitted Hunter as he sat up.

Marcie perked up at that. “Oh. Woah. Did he say anything? I’ll beat his ass. He can catch these hands.” She started to do air punches again, and Hunter felt brushes of air with how hard she was throwing her fists.

“Nah, nah. Nothing like that.” He had to stop to take a deep breath before finishing his thought. “He told me he was there the day you died. We were in the middle of the chip isle and he was on shift. It had been a while since I’d seen him and it just brought up all this shit. So I kind of told him to fuck off. But, Marcie, he said you left a note.”

“Oh!...Woah.” Marcie dropped her arms. She licked her teeth behind her lips like anger would spill out if she spoke too soon.

He gave her time.

“Hunter. Why didn’t you tell me? You–” Her voice broke against her pent up frustration. Her chest was still, but she centered herself as if she were taking meditative breaths. The breeze whistled through the redwood leaves as she collected herself.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“Puta madre,” Marcie said to herself.

“Look under the patch, Hunter. I don’t have a fucking eye anymore. I have a giant hole in my chest. Someone forged a suicide note in my name. God, whoever did this to me deserves to rot in a jail cell.”

She paused to look into Hunter’s eyes, read something in them. He intended to let her say everything she needed to say, not trample over what she was trying to express. But, every nerve ending in his body itched to defend himself. So, he gave no response.

“I can't remember anything more than this feeling I have. I can't put a face to the force that pushed me. And I hate not being able to remember anything because it takes all my soul not to blame everyone. The whole fucking world. And I really don't want to blame you, so stop giving me so many reasons to do it. I know it sounds crazy; I know you have no reason to believe me.”

Another pause.

“Are you mad at me? Goddammit, say something!”

Hunter’s inner thoughts became incredibly small. So quiet that he couldn’t pull from any present logic to form his response.

“No! Mar, I believe you because how could I not believe you? I will always believe you. And I’m not mad. I’m just terrified.” Hunter bit back a sob. “What if people find out you’re here and go on a witch hunt? What if all this is some unfinished business junk and when we find your murderer you, like, pass on? You could slip through my fingers again at the drop of a hat…I don’t know what you were wearing when you died, but no pun intended.”

That got a small chuckle out of Marcie. She pushed him for daring to lighten the mood.

“I know it’s a lot,” she said. She reached her arms out to embrace Hunter. He scooted in close so they were elbow to elbow and hugged her back. He felt her whole body shake after he rested his head in the crook of her neck, indicating that her knee was bouncing relentlessly.

He had to agree. “It’s a lot. I’m trying to deal the best I can. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

Marcie said. “If it’s too much, I’ll figure it out myself. You won’t have to worry. At the very least I’m not a witch, I don’t think. And…” She sighed. “If I never find out what happened, I think I’d be okay. I want to do it because I can now. But if I can’t, that memory is gone forever, I’ll live.”

Now that made Hunter laugh a little out of his nostrils. “We’ll talk to Grant then. Hopefully the guy doesn’t faint when he finds out you’re among the living.”

“That can wait,” said Marcie, calmly.

Hunter questioned, “Huh, why?”

“Cause it’s Sunday, dummy. You have chores to do.” She smirked and ruffled his hair.

A little after that, after darkness set in a healthy fear of the unknown, Hunter drove them home. Marcie packed herself back into the suitcase before he climbed out with her. Nestling together under the covers did make everything okay. Everything was going to be okay.

There was one thing about the house that the Campbell family prided themselves on more than anything else. One thing that was as pristine as the rest of Redwood Cove’s upper echelon. 1 Weller Drive was a flawless white. Not an off-white. Pure white. Or it was supposed to be. Hunter learned, or rather, taught himself how to power wash it himself when he was twelve and only ever stopped when he went away for college. He, maybe presumptuously, assumed his parents had made Beth do it now. Instead, he discovered Dad had hired a professional cleaning service to come through and do it every couple months or so. Now that Hunter was back home, it was now his duty again. Classic.

Ever since they were children, Candace and Beth had the weight of the world resting on their success. Dad made sure they all had good grades, filled their day with extra-curriculars, and didn’t get into trouble. Hunter had that weight and then some, picking up every chore his parents asked of him with no questions asked or taking care of Beth when Candace was busy, which she always was with one boy or another. He should have known none of his responsibilities were transferable to either of them.

He blasted away at the porch ceiling. Chemical-infused water droplets rained onto his shaggy, unwashed hair. After last night, all he wanted to do was hold Marcie. Forever, if he could. He’d spent the last week bringing meals back to his room to spend as much time around her as possible. Since there wasn’t another family meeting on the horizon, nobody told him off for it. That morning, he only left the bed and left Marcie alone in the guest house, after Candace came to the door with breakfast and reminded him ever so gently, that he had about forty-eight hours to finish all the tasks Dad had laid out for him.

Hunter felt small droplets of water strike his scalp. It was calming. It helped him think. Nobody goes into the guest house when Hunter is home. They expect him to clean up after himself. No one will know she’s here. Nobody will find the urn, or the book, or Marcie. She would be fine.

And of course they were gonna blow that cover on Grant–fucking–Jeong. Still, as long as he didn’t freak out and do something stupid, he’d be the only one who knew. They could keep the circle small.

A kick to his ankle from behind jolted Hunter back to attention. Beth.

Elizabeth Campbell was five years younger than he was. His parents told him when he was young, that they had their two perfect children, Candace and him. One boy, one girl. Then Beth came along as a result of a vacation to Cabo. Not that Hunter would tell her she was an accident. He was saving that for when Beth eventually and inevitably hit stratospheric levels of annoying.

“Wake up! You’re getting soaked, idiot,” she chided. “And you’re making a huge puddle.”

He hadn’t even noticed that his hair was drenched, his shirt was now clinging to his body, and there was a sizable puddle of soapy water at his feet. Hunter shut off the water.

“If you ask for the car again, I’m telling Mom about the bong I found in the trunk.” Hunter kicked her back.

“Hey! I already apologized about the smell. We’re square,” Beth argued. “And it’s my car now. You’re just borrowing it until you’re done with your gap semester or whatever you wanna call being a lazy piece of shit.”

“Hmm, look who’s talking. Also, super cool of you to totally rat me out. I told you about that in confidence.”

Beth scoffed. Hunter ignored her and sprayed the ceiling again, properly. His shoes squeaked with gushy wetness when he stepped.

“So, who’s the girl in the guest house?” Beth asked under her breath.

Quickly, he spun around and splashed the ceiling above Beth with the power washer, raining suds all over her.

“Hey! What the hell–”

“–You saw that?” Hunter put a finger to his lips to quiet her. He towered over Beth, popping her personal bubble to stare daggers down at her. “Why were you even up then?”

At this point, sarcasm gave way to frustration. Beth crossed her arms and started cracking her knuckles. “Okay, Mom. Why wouldn’t I be awake? It was like 2am. I saw you bring a girl into the guest house. You carried her like a princess. It was disgusting.”

“Disgusting!?” She saw her. She knows. Hunter caught himself, “Disgusting, in what way?”

Two hands shoved Hunter off balance. With how slick the floor was, he was on his ass before he could realize what was happening. Now it was Beth’s turn to tower over him. She stood over him with the meanest death glare he’d ever received. “Ya already forget your girlfriend, asshole? The one that died a fucking year ago?”

Hunter was stunned. She doesn't know. “It’s not like that,” he said.

“Huh?” Beth raised an eyebrow. “Then what is it like?”

“I–” Hunter started, but didn’t know where to go. “It’s not like that.”

He got to his feet to square up to his sister. A bit silly considering she was sixteen, and about seven inches shorter than him, but Beth probably would have kicked him while he was down. Hunter narrowed his eyes. He imagined that from the outside it looked like a wet giraffe trying to intimidate a feral honey badger.

“Who is she?” Beth insisted.

“A friend from college.” He played up a pleading tone. “She just needs a place to stay for a while. It’s been days. Why are you bringing this up now? You haven’t told anyone else, have you?”

Beth backed down sympathetically. She always did when things got serious. “If you don’t want me to tell mom or dad, I won’t.”

Reasonable suspicion set in. Hunter knew his sister too well. “What do you want?”

“Well I wasn’t going to ask for anything,” she sang with impish glee. “But since you offered. Then I need you to cover for me. As you know, Dickhead grounded me–”

“–Too much, dude.”

“Easy for you to say, favorite.” She said it like an insult. And beyond that, Hunter didn’t know how true that was anymore. “Dad grounded me and I need you to meet my plug tonight behind the old wharf house.”

“Really Beth? Come on, I thought you were quitting. What do you think is gonna happen if they find out? Ground you harder?”

She was looking indignantly up at Hunter. “Which is why this is actually the perfect situation! I already had this set up, so you’re going for me. And quit riding my ass, I’ll quit after this bag.”

Despite the Campbell children's distinct noses, they shared other facial features. Their cheeks were all sort of puffy and round but not too puffy and round and all three of them had protruding eyes but not in a way that made them look creepy. Beth's button nose, unique among the three, lent to her looking like a puppy that knew if it yipped for long enough, it would eventually get what it wanted. And its human victim had lived with its barking long enough that it had learned it was fated to give into its demands sooner rather than later.

“No, this is ridiculous,” Hunter said with finality.

“Then I’m telling!” yelled Beth like she was five years old instead of sixteen.

To that, Hunter sprayed the water hose back up towards the ceiling to rain another soaking waterfall onto his sister. In response, Beth punched him square in the diaphragm. For as little and puppy dog adorable as Beth should have been, she hit like a man. So Hunter folded immediately.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll do it,” he acquiesced. “But I want it on record that you're an asshole.”

“You’re a bigger asshole!” Beth said. A very creative, very original comeback. She kicked him in the shin on the same leg just above where she’d kicked his ankle, as one last reminder that she was the most annoying person on planet Earth. It was common to get the feeling that Beth hated his guts for one reason or another, but usually after she’d won an argument, she practically pranced away from him. As Beth walked into the house, soaking wet with squeaky shoes, she looked back at him like he was truly vile. There was a moment that Hunter considered demanding an answer as to why she gave him that face. Lucky for Beth, there was a laundry list of more important things to worry about, no thanks to her.