“It’s too late to apologize,” he sneered, raising his weapon.

“Please,” I begged, flinging up my arms in a useless attempt to protect my face. “Have some mercy!”

“Never!” he cried. “Pew! Pew! Pew!” His finger gun recoiled with each shot and I thrashed as the imaginary bullets pierced my chest. I toppled backwards onto the bulkhead and stuck my tongue out to let him know that I was good and truly dead.

“Silas?” he asked, holstering his smoking finger. I stayed silent and held my breath so that my chest wouldn’t give me away. “Get up, Silly Goose!” he ordered, kicking me in the side. “I didn’t kill you that badly.” Suddenly I reared up and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. He squealed as I pulled him into my lap and began to ruthlessly tickly his sides. Eventually, when he was close to peeing himself and I was tired of being kicked, I let him go and got back to my feet.

I’d missed him—the way each unwashed lock of hair seemed to curl in a different direction, the freckles that had almost completely faded from his baby fat cheeks, the empty grey eyes that proved he truly was my brother when the rest of his features argued otherwise. Since I’d left, Micah had been forced to dress himself, which explained the corduroy overalls, Christmas and Halloween themed socks, and women’s extra small shirt I’d found him in.

“Come on, Micah,” I said with mock impatience. “You can’t lay on the floor like a starfish all day long.”

“But, Silas,” he whined. “You were gone forever! Can’t I take just one day off of school to hang out with you?” I crossed my arms and tried my best to look stern.

“You didn’t do your homework last night did you?” His sideways glance answered my question for him. “Damnit, Micah,” I snapped, “You need to start taking your schoolwork more seriously.”

“Why?” he asked defiantly. “All we’re learning is dumb old math and dumb old writing and the dumb old capitals of the dumb united states of dumb America.”

“Hey now,” I warned, “You’re a proud citizen of those dumb united states of dumb America. Why are you so against learning all the state capitols?”

“Because it’s boring; I want to learn how to shoot and fight and make booby traps and cool stuff like that so I can go out on patrol with you.” There was so much sincerity in his eyes that I couldn’t keep myself from smiling.

“There will be plenty of time for that when you’re old enough to shoot a gun bigger than your index finger. But for now, you need to focus on your studies. I know it doesn’t seem worthwhile or fun right now, but you’ll be thankful for the opportunity to have a proper education down the road.” I paused and then tilted my head to the side. “Well, I guess it’s not a proper education, but it will have to do for the time being.”

“Did you get a proper education?” he asked.

“No,” I smirked. “I was privately tutored by a teacher who, despite his many faults, knew how to make information stick.”

“How did he do that?” he asked.

“He had a very simple system, either you remembered everything from the day’s lesson, or you went to bed hungry. I spent as many nights hungry as not.”

“Silas, will you help me with my capitols before class?” he asked in that sweet, endearing way only small children can.

“Sure. I replied, already reaching for the enormous, colorful atlas on my bookshelf. “Which capitols do you need to learn for today?” He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me and crinkled his face in an effort to remember

“I think we have to know Colorado, Utah, Arizona, Kansas, Oklahoma, and New Mexico. Silas, I have a question.” I grunted in response as I thumbed through page after page in search of the U.S. map. “Why is New Mexico called New Mexico? Is there an Old Mexico? There can’t be a New Mexico unless there’s an Old Mexico, right?

“It’s not called Old Mexico,” I chuckled. “Mexico is another country, like the United States of America, except smaller and farther to the south.”

“So there’s another country called the United States of Mexico?”

“No, it’s just Mexico.”

“Well then why aren’t we just America?”

“Why aren’t you just shut up and let me help you study for your quiz?” My improper sentence structure confused him and I seized the momentary lapse to press onward with the actual lesson. “Alright… so the capitol of Colorado is Denver. That’s an easy one. D comes right after C in the alphabet, so Denver comes right after Colorado when you’re thinking of states and their capitols.”

“What about Kansas?” he asked

“Umm… Well the capitol of Kansas is Topeka, and a good trick to remember that is… Alright, Micah, new plan: you’re going to go to class, and then when it comes time for geography, you’re going to fake a tummy ache. We’ll study up on the capitals tonight and then tomorrow you can rock the quiz like nobody’s business. Sound good?” He smiled and hopped up to his feet.

“Do you think Mrs. Turner will give me a sucker if I’m not feeling good?”

“Well.”

“What?”

“You should have said ‘if I’m not feeling well.’ Nevermind, it’s not really important.” I leaned down and kissed his hair before ruffling it into place. “I’m sure she’d give you a sucker if there were any left, bud. Now get your stuff. You’re already running a little late.” He grabbed his super hero backpack off of my desk and then lingered there. “What’s wrong, Micah?” I asked, walking over to see what had so enthralled his attention.

“Silas, why do you have this?” he asked quietly, eyes glued to the American flag bandana that covered the fresh cracks on my desk.

“Because Pavel doesn’t need it anymore,” I answered honestly.

“Is that because he’s dead?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly.

“Am I ever going to die?” he pressed, fear choking his already unsteady voice.

“No,” I stated with conviction, wrapping my arms around him as I nestled my cheek against his hair. “I will never let anything happen to you, especially death.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” I steered him towards the door and gently pushed him into the hallway. He looked back at me as he walked away.

“How can you promise to keep me safe when you couldn’t keep Pavel safe?” I had no answer for him and he knew it.

There were several people already in the chapel when I arrived. Every one of them managed to find an excuse to leave by the time I’d sat down. The fresh clothes felt still and resentful. My skin reeked of scented soap and my hair fell nearly to my eyes now that it had been thoroughly combed and rinsed. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” While I personally had never much cared for either, my father had insisted on scouring whatever filth he could from my body each time we looted a church.

Many of his favorite treasures still populated the Ascension’s chapel. Father Gregory’s pulpit was flanked by a pair of painted gold candlesticks I’d unscrewed from the floor of a small town church. Laminated posters with messages like “Love thy neighbor (but not his wife)” and “What if Jesus had been aborted?” were taped between portholes. The latter had always been my favorite piece of religious decoration; not just because of its ridiculous tone, but because it represented an entire chapter of human history that had been slammed closed in the blink of an eye. The rapture had come, but sin had not been cleansed, the messiah had not reared his remarkably ethnically-neutral head, and so he had been abandoned, cast alongside the corpses of Osiris, Apollo, Odin, Kinich Ahau, and all the others who had been dumped in the mass grave where religion rots away into mythology. Other, smaller trinkets hung or stood between the rows of assorted candles that gave the chapel its signature warmth.

One of my father’s favorite jokes was that eschatology was the new anthropology and anthropology was the new philosophy. I hadn’t understood any of those terms well enough to laugh with him, but even at a young age I knew the overpowering majority of his jokes were for his own benefit. Now, eschatology was one of my favorite subjects. I was endlessly amazed by how many different endings had been predicted for our species. Many revolved around alien warships descending from the heavens to wipe away all traces of our existence, or a great battle between the forces of good and evil that would leave only the worthy behind to rebuild, or a flood (perhaps our ingrained fear of floods explains why we have such an ingrained love of sailboats). Whichever story you choose to examine, it immediately becomes clear that our ancestors had such high expectations for humanity’s finale. And, as is nearly always the case with high expectations, the real “rapture,” the true “ragnarok” seems so boring in comparison. Instead of putting demons to the sword with legions of angels, I stabbed feral mutants with a combat knife. Instead of peeking out from my boat to see everyone I had ever known turned to drooping piles of clay by the vengeful gods, I trekked through miles of nondescript buildings and squabbled with packs of dogs over cans of expired tuna fish. To be honest, I felt a little cheated.

I pulled the flask from my pocket and took a long pull. Sobriety always seemed to be more of a nuisance than a comfort whenever I found my way to chapel. My father could always be found there, giving council or lecturing on the virtues of faith, and though he never had time to hear my worries, I had often laid across one of the back pews and let his passionate voice lull me to sleep. Sometimes he would leave me there to wake up frightened and alone amongst the dying candles, tendrils of smoke billowing around me like hungry phantoms. But sometimes he would carry be back to our compartment and lay me on my bed. On those occasions, I would be woken up by Micah crying out for attention and spend the next hour holding a bottle for him as he looked up at me with his piercing little eyes and grasp my fingers with his pudgy little hands.

“I never thought I’d catch a man drinking the Devil’s nectar in a house of God.”

For a man of his bulk, Father Gregory was startlingly silent. I looked back over my shoulder and lifted the flask to greet him as he strode calmly between the pews. Dust cowered from the scything edges of his white robes as he moved, footfalls eerily muffled and distant. Even his skin was white, bleached by the dark rooms and creaking passages that had become his entire world. To my knowledge, he had not even visited the top deck since he’d first been led into the ship.

“I bet you’ve also never seen a man as bored as me,” I laughed as I took another pull. His beard curled with a smile as he took his rightful place behind his pulpit.

“Ahh, it is when we are distracted that we allow our minds to wander, and when our minds wander we give in to the temptation of idleness, and it is when we are idle that—“

“That our hands become the Devil’s playthings,” I finished for him. “Come on, preacher, that is the second time you’ve directly referenced Satan in the last fifteen seconds. I know a man of your… oratory talents can do better than that.”

“I trust you’re wounds are healing well?” he asked, ignoring my haughty attitude.

“Well enough.” He nodded and stroked his beard.

“From what I hear, it was by the grace of God that you survived that fall.” I lifted my flask and toasted,

“To the grace of God, the only explanation for anything positive that happens to anyone.” His eyes narrowed and he placed both his hands flat against the pulpit.

“I understand this is a difficult time for you, Silas, but there is no need for such hostility. Please do not come into my place of worship and take the name of the lord to which it is dedicated in vain.” I waved his anger away and went to take another pull from my flask before thinking better of it.

“Oh calm down,” I said dismissively. “If God didn’t have a sense of humor then he wouldn’t have built us up like a sand castle just to watch us be washed away when the tide came in.”

“Is that all faith is to you?” he asked seriously. “A big, cosmic joke for you to twist into cheeky metaphors?” I screwed on the cap and slipped the flask back into my pocket.

“Why did you feel the need to get a giant cross tattooed on your forehead?” I asked, pointing right between his eyes. “Was it so that people would notice your religion and not even bother to look at the man behind it?”

“Not all of us feel the need to hide our devotion beneath layers of mockery and downright unpleasantness, Silas.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “It’s some fine work. I especially like how all the different lines weave around each other to make it look almost like solid black unless you look closely. That must have been painful to sit through. Was it painful?”

“Pain is the guide that leads us through the forest of doubt to the fountain of truth.” I smiled at him.

“You really do have a cute little saying for everything don’t you.” His hands quivered against his pulpit and I could tell that he was at the very end of a rapidly fraying rope.

“They are not cute little... Silas, I understand that you are undergoing a great deal of emotional trauma, but again, that does not give you the right to conduct yourself in such a beastly manner.”

“Do you understand?” I asked. “Do you honestly believe that you can relate to my trials and tribulations at this exact moment?” He slowly stepped around his pulpit and walked to the edge of the dais.

“You’re not the only one who has ever watched a friend die,” he assured me in what he clearly thought to be a soothing tone.

“Watch yourself, preacher,” I hissed dangerously.

“I have braved the wastes for longer than you have been able to walk, Silas. I have seen the best and the worst of what humanity has left to offer, and I promise that I can help you through these troubled times if you let me.”

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“Oh really?” I scoffed. “Tell me about these horrors you’ve apparently been through. Regale me with a tale of how you grew fat off the blind generosity of others before doing the same here.” He continued moving closer, each step impossibly slow, a hunter who knew that even the smallest mistake would spook his quarry.

“You know nothing of what you speak. I was not always a man of God. Believe it or not, I was once an angry, misguided youth such as yourself.” He pointed out one of the portholes. “But out there, hidden amongst the tombs of those lucky enough to leave this earth before it was too late, there is a place where life and death are bound in a depraved struggle for attention, a place where a man’s sins may be cleansed in the blood of his brothers. Out there, there is a pit where men become lions. It is there I died and there I was reborn. I have seen what will become of us if we stray from the path, Silas. I have seen it and I still shudder at the memory. Come with me.” He extended his hand. “Leave your vendettas behind and come with me on the path to salvation.”

His fingertips brushed my shoulder. I knocked his hand away and surged to my feet.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” I snapped, backing out of his reach. “Just because you inherited my father’s station does not mean you inherited his children.” A vein in Father Gregory’s forehead bulged red against his temple.

“I’ve told you to never speak to me of that heathen!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Does he remind you a little too much of yourself? You know, without the tacky face tattoo.” Another vein joined the first and even from a short distance I could see them pulsating.

“Joseph Connelly was a foul witch who communed with demons,” he assured me as though revealing some buried truth that would finally make me see the error of my ways.

“How do I know that I’m not the one communing with a demon right now?” I asked mockingly. “A shiny new prophet bringing the rightful word of God seems like the perfect cover for one of Satan’s host seeking to devour our immortal souls, don’t you think?”

“You watch your tongue, boy!” he roared. “I’ve struck down far better men than you for far less than that.” I opened my arms to him and stepped forward, our noses almost touching.

“Then do it! Strike me down and silence your final critic!” He looked me over for several tense moments and his lip curled in disgust. Stepping back, he folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes.

“What a petulant, melancholy thing you are. I’m not going to kill you, Silas. I want to help you. I... I want to help you.” I let my arms fall to my sides and shook my head.

“I don’t need any help from you, preacher. And tell God that, next time I come to have a chat with him, I’d appreciate it if his lapdog waited outside.” Without breaking eye contact, I spat on the floor and left.

The chapel, and the undeniably immature way which I left it, faded as I hopped up a stairwell and hastened through a set of corridors. The smell of food guided me as surely as my own eyes to the mess hall and I gladly took my place in line. I’d hoped to arrive early enough to see Micah, but the schoolchildren ate before the general population, before their tiny stomachs had a chance to grumble, so the only hint of their passing by the time I arrived was a teetering mountain of dishes.

I could feel their attention burrowing into me from every direction. Gaggles of older women peered cautiously over the tops of their half-finished sweaters, accusations and inquiries flitting between knitting needles that never stopped moving. Men who I’d stood beside for years, shirts colored with sweat from the morning’s labor, scooted closer to their wives along the cafeteria benches. I felt like a freakshow being paraded before an audience who realized too late that, instead of being treated to a bearded lady or juggling bear on a unicycle, they had paid to sit dangerously close to a convicted serial killer who could, at any given moment, butcher them all with the nearest cooking utensil. How thrilling... I shuffled along with the rest of the lunch line, took a beaten metal tray from the top of the stack, and held it out when I finally reached the end.

“Good morning, Silas,” Mrs. Anderson said with convincing cheer, though her pointed emphasis made it clear that she could smell the alcohol on my breath.

“Good morning, Mrs. Anderson,” I replied with a smile, trying not to think about how her crow’s feet looked like tiny hooks that constantly made her squint with suspicion. She ladled a meagre helping of broth into a bowl and placed it on my tray next to an individually wrapped box of raisins and two almost white sticks of celery from the Ascension’s garden. She knew I hated raisins. Two thank you’s and a cup of boiled river water later, I sat down at the least populated table and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. The broth was so salty it burned my tongue. The raisins tasted like two dollar wine that had reverted back into a solid. The celery left me with the same emotions one would feel after forcing moldy tree bark down their throat with a stick.

I swung my legs over the other side of the bench and left my tray on the growing stack. My neck hair was ruffled by the collective sigh of relief that followed me out of the mess hall.

Down through the tangled bowels of the ship I went, wanting nothing more than to lay on my cot and hibernate the days away until everyone had forgotten what a diabolical monster they assumed me to be. I turned the final corner before my room and visibly flinched at the shock of finding someone there waiting for me, hand poised to knock on the hatch. But when she turned to see me standing there, mouth hanging like a neon open sign, her hand fell, her face lit up, and she overpowered me with a barrage of kisses.

“Silas!” Natalie shrieked, throwing her slender arms around my neck.

“Miss Pescelli,” I answered with joking formality.

“I came to see how you were getting along!”

“I can see that,” I replied, completely unsure of how to cope with such an explosive show of affection. “I... I got your flowers.” She pulled away and beamed.

“Oh did you? Well, I assumed you would, silly boy, considering I put them on your bedside table. I picked them just for you, you know. I tried to pick the best ones, but I couldn’t pick all of the best ones because it would be rude to take all the best flowers in the garden, so I had to leave some. And, Silas, oh Silas, you looked so beaten up and, well to be honest, more than a little gross just laying there on that bed and I swear it was more than I could bear! But I still visited you a few times. I went and sat on the next bed over and read the best parts of Gone with the Wind to you while you slept. I tried to leave out the more boring parts because I know you don’t like boring books and...”

I stopped listening and just looked at her. The way her pouty lips curled upwards even as they formed word after endless word, the way her hair fell in a shining cascade of brown that she was constantly forced to brush out of her eyes, and her dress, the stylish congregation of colorful patches stitched together with thick cord, proving that, even out of chaotic destruction, she could still make something beautiful--and her eyes, her eyes that never ceased to make me believe in God; unwavering and unimaginably bright, dripping with lust, begging for the eternity we both know I cannot provide, until she blinks, she blinks and she becomes a painting, every stroke perfect and precise, waiting for me to hang her on my wall and never look away.

I leaned down and kissed her until the words I wasn’t hearing stopped.

“Would you like to come inside?” I asked, pushing the hatchway open and gesturing with a flourish. She giggled and stepped past me.

“Such a gentleman.” However, once on the other side, she planted her hands firmly on her hips and whined, “Silas, you haven’t done a single thing to brighten up this room like I asked you to. It looks like an army barracks in here. No girl wants to be invited into an army barracks.” She turned on the spot, shaking her head at the blank walls and drab furniture. “Oh wait,” she chirpsed, “here’s a bit of color finally.” She moved to my desk and picked up the bandada I’d left there. “Oh...” she sighed., realizing the morbid nature of what she was holding. “Silas,” she began tentatively. I could already tell what direction our conversation was about to take and my temper preemptively flared. “Everyone has been talking about you lately, saying some really horrible things sometimes too, and I just have to know... what happened out there?”

“I did my goddamn job,” I snapped. “That’s what happened.” She smoothed the bandana back across my desk and placed her hands against my chest.

“I know you did, Silas. I know you did everything you could. You don’t have to explain anything to me. But people worry, they worry about things they don’t understand or didn’t see for themselves, and if you could just give me some truth to tell them then I’m sure they’ll calm down and this whole thing will just blow over.” While her plan sounded good in theory, I unfortunately knew that the truth, even a part of it, would only make the situation exponentially worse.

“If people want to know why we don’t always come back, they can go out on a patrol and find out for themselves,” I answered with chilling decisiveness. She clearly wanted to argue, wanted to know more, out of both concern and personal curiosity, but she also knew that this was a battle she could win neither through force nor cunning trickery; and so she bit her lip and pretended to look at something just over my shoulder. As was always the case when Natalie didn’t get her way, a tense silence followed. And, as was always the case when trapped in one of Natalie’s patented tense silences, I bribed my way out.

“I brought you something,” I said, brushing a lock of hair out of the way so I could watch her eyes spark. I sat sat down on my cot and dragged my pack out from underneath. With dramatic slowness, I reached inside and then whipped out the blouse I’d picked just for her. She gasped and snatched it from my hands, immediately holding it up to her narrow shoulders.

“Oh, Silas,” she swooned breathlessly, “I absolutely adore it! You always bring me such lovely things. I’m going to try it on right this minute.”

“Oh don’t bother trying it on,” I said. Her shoulders slumped and she stomped her foot.

“But why not?” I pulled her onto my lap and smiled wolfishly.

“Because then I’d just have to go through all the trouble of tearing that off too.”

...Her warm tongue sliding along the edges of my teeth... Her dress peeling away like a waterfall of flashing color... My hands wandering as far across her addictively soft skin as my arms will allow... Shallow breaths against my neck that quiver with every movement... Surrounding warmth that suddenly becomes impossible to live without... The taste of blood as I bite her lip harder than I intended... Unbearable lulls as she teases me before the roaring crash... Injections of pain as her nails dig into my back... Damp fire against my hand as I keep her voice from echoing through the halls... The jolt of my own name being gasped into my ear until time shatters like a pane of warping glass…

The heat was stifling. I’d bought a new suit for the occasion and now I was concerned that sweat would drip all the way through my shirt and stain the fine material. The tie was new as well, a last minute impulse purchase that punished me by constantly trying to curl around the knot. I checked my hair in the rearview mirror one more time, brushed the last few crumbs of breakfast out of my mustache, and then opened my car door. A scorching breeze carried the laughter and boisterous greetings that proved I was already late. I grabbed the box from the passenger seat, slipped it into my coat pocket, and then groaned as I hauled my belly from the vehicle. Perhaps my wife had been right about going for walks more often.

Other finely dressed people were streaming towards a cast iron gate set in the palisade of well-trimmed hedges and so I followed them. A table waited on the left, already overflowing with gifts to the point that several had fallen onto the grass. I placed my box on top of a stack of increasingly smaller boxes and continued down the cobblestone pathway. It was a pair of wrist watches. I hadn’t known what to get and so I had bought them a matching pair of wrist watches. Past the gift table, a man in a smart black tie took the names of people as they went by, striking each one from his clipboard with precise flicks of his dainty wrist. My name accounted for, I continued into the gardens. The gazebo was at the center, its jutting dome the only speck of white to be found against the otherwise perfect blue. It was the perfect day, except that it was so damn hot.

Manicured lawns stretched out to either side, sliced into quadrants by an elaborate grid of hedges. fountains and statues and other convoluted pieces of “art” decorated many of the sections while shaded trees and simulated ponds added just a touch of wilderness. I found their approach to the classic “man and nature coexisting in harmony” theme to be a bit heavy-handed. Many people assumed that I wouldn’t know Rembrandt from Warhol, but if anything my employment gave me an overabundance of time to read about the finer things in life. As I approached the gazebo, flower embankments rose up to create a moat of vibrant color that did a much finer job of greeting me to the event than the man paid to greet me.

I was shown to my seat by a young man who clearly expected a tip even after I’d thanked him and turned away. The chair’s legs bowed as I sat down and I smiled at the image of a cheap plastic Atlas struggling to hold up my bulk, an expression which was immediately noticed and misunderstood.

“It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it?” I turned to find myself sitting next to a frail old woman in a white dress and light blue jacket. Silver hair streamed out from under her wide-brimmed hat and the largest pearls I had ever seen dangled from her neck.

“Yes it is,” I replied. “I’m glad they decided to wait until summer.”

“Do you work with Benjamin on his ship?” she asked politely.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied equally politely. “I’m his first mate.” She looked fondly out over the lawns to the harbor that was visible over the bordering cliff.

“She certainly looks quite festive today.” I too looked towards the harbor.

“She certainly does.”

Shackled to the nearest pier, the Ascension sat high on the water, her holds left unfilled for the first time in years. Hanging from the towers and railings of the massive ship were thousands of streamers and primary color flags that whistled and snapped on the dry breeze like a cheering crowd. The captain’s only condition for the venue had been that his ship must be allowed to attend. It took quite a bit of searching, but a compromise had finally been struck. I rescued a glass of water from a passing tray and sipped it while listening to the smalltalk that burbled all around. Every member of the crew was in attendance, dressed as well as their respective salaries and lifestyles would allow.

The ceremony began with a trill of piano keys and all conversation immediately ground to a halt. The captain had appeared as if from thin air, perched nervously on the top step of the gazebo with a tail of groomsman drooping down the stairs. He had decided to wear his old naval dress uniform, and while the medals gleamed and the jacket hugged him well, it looked too out of character with the sober workhorse he had become. The uniform was too dashing, too memorable. It didn’t match that furrowed brow or that well-trimmed beard at all. But then again, neither did the beaming smile that cracked his face open like a gold vein in a block of granite. And who was the lucky prospector who had unearthed this hidden treasure? Well, at that moment she was being led down the aisle by both her father and his walker. She was not an attractive woman. Her teeth were uneven, her knuckles were hairy, rolls of fat bulged against the confines of her dress, and yet she carried herself with such poise, such surety in her own potential, that she appeared in that moment to be the most beautiful bride in all the world. I’d met her once at a christmas party. She had a strikingly dark sense of humor and a liver made of iron. But even if she had been a worthless hag, our captain loved her, and so we all loved her.

“I never had a proper wedding you know,” the frail old woman said quietly, remorsefully, as though just now realizing it for the first time.

“Oh?” I replied, leaning in as to not disturb those nearby. The priest had begun to speak and his voice provided adequate cover for us to converse unnoticed. “Why not?” She sighed and a bitter smile tugged at her wrinkles.

“I was pregnant with Benjamin quite young, and we were so afraid of what people would think of us that we ran off and eloped. Not exactly the most glamorous or original tale, but the truth almost never is. Now it’s been so many years since my husband has passed, I have more money than I possibly know what to do with, and only one child on this earth to spend it on. Benjamin deserves the wedding I never had as a down payment for the world of joy he has given me.” The guest on my other side pulled on my sleeve and whispered something so quietly that I couldn’t hear. I ignored them.

“So is this the wedding you’ve always imagined for yourself?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she replied. “I had something very different in mind.” The other guest pulled on my sleeve again and whispered more loudly, “Silas...” It sounded familiar, like a word from another language you learned in school but can’t quite remember. I was beginning to get annoyed, but once again ignored them.

“Well then what is your dream wedding?” I asked. Her answer was cut off as a hand yanked on my sleeve and a mouth barked loudly for my attention.

“Silas...” The priest faltered and all eyes turned towards us, each pair brimming with indignant rage. I held up a finger to my captain’s mother and turned to see what the hell it was that this unbelievably rude person wanted. Slender fingers snapped onto my cheeks and the voice screamed directly into my face.

“Silas!”

“What?” I yelled.

“You’re bleeding...” Natalie replied quietly, frightened by my volume.

“Oh,” I stated flatly, wiping away the line of red that trickled from my nostril. “Sorry…”

“Well do you still want to know?” she asked.

“Do I still want to know what?” Her bottom lip threatened to curl into a pout and she said,

“You asked me what my dream wedding would be. Do you still want to know?”

“Sure,” I answered, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her head back down against my chest.

“Well,” she began excitedly, her voice sending vibrations through my skin. “It has to be in the spring, that’s an obvious rule. And I want lots of people to be there, even people I’ve never met before. The ceremony will take place in a colonial brownstone church with towering stained glass windows and walls that are cool to the touch even on the hottest days. Flowers will be everywhere--wreathed around doorways, sticking out of bouquets, wrapped around candlesticks, sprinkled across the floor, braided into the hair of all the little girls--just everywhere. Oh, and I almost forgot, I also want the church bells to ring all morning so that everyone knows what a wonderful day it’s going to be!”

I considered telling her that ringing church bells was the worst tactical decision someone could ever make and would only result in getting everyone present brutally killed. Unless the bells were being used as a decoy to lure out pursuers, or as a distraction so you could make your way to safety. Whatever the case may be, I deemed it better to keep such practical considerations to myself and let her enjoy her fantasy. Apparently she hadn’t noticed that I’d stopped listening and had continued on at full steam.

“And I want a traditional dress, nothing too freakishly long or poofy, but slender and elegant with pointed sleeves that cover the backs of my hands and lacy designs down the skirt and a neckline just low enough to prove that its not my grandmother’s wedding dress. And I want a little flower girl with long blonde hair and cute little slippers and a little blonde ring bearer boy in an absolutely adorable little tuxedo.”

“Would you also like a giant cross and matching lynch rope to go with your aryan-themed wedding?” I asked, wincing as she playfully smacked my ribcage.

“Shut up, Silas! Anyway, the groom will be in an all white suit with white shoes and a white tie and a black west. We’ll be married by a kindly old preacher with a deep, booming voice, and then at the end of our vows, which we will write ourselves, he’ll kiss me even before the preacher finishes telling him that he can do so. I also want to do that thing where the couple smashes the cake into each other’s faces... and the first dance to be to a beautiful song... and that Jewish chair thing because it looks really fun. And I also want--”

“Shh...” I said, putting my finger over her lips. “You clearly haven’t thought about this enough and need to put some more time into it.” She giggled and leaned up to kiss me.

“What about you, Silas?”

“What about me what?”

“How have you always imagined getting married?”

“Um... to be honest, I’ve never put much thought into it. I didn’t realize that marriage was still something that happened anymore.”

“Oh,” she replied, clearly disappointed with my lack of romanticism. We layed on my cot for a while more, enjoying the shared warmth and thinking our own thoughts, completely separate and yet as physically close as possible.

“Want to know something?” I asked finally.

“What?”

“I think you’re swell.” She laughed harder than I thought she would, hard enough to make her whole body shake.

“I think you’re swell too, Silas,” she replied with a smile.

“Come on,” I said. “Micah will be back from school soon and we should probably have some clothes on when he does.”