Not long did the lone blade of grass stay by itself. Once allowed, life multiplied. After a week, the odd white sand was pushed back by the growing circle of brown ground beneath the slide. Common weeds like clover, dandelions, and a tenacious crabgrass patch took root. The city parks department arrived with a truckload of new, dark mulch and a group of disinterested youths to distribute it after being perplexed by the abrupt sandy depression in the middle of the wood chips. The playground resumed its unremarkable routine, the desert was paved over, and the slide reappeared from its sandy grave. Tatiana, however, was aware. Tatiana's eyes would go to the area beneath the metal curve of the slide every morning as they walked to the school bus stop for Mira, who is now solidly, blessedly seven years old and completely enamoured with football and a talking truck cartoon. There, the grass became slightly more lush. The dandelions had a little brighter bloom. She also occasionally sp

The air became acrid and thin. With a desperate, piston-like rhythm, Tatiana's wings beat as she ascended. The twins, whose pink and white onesies stood out against the limitless blue, were tiny dots overhead, steadily climbing. They weren't going down. As though the idea of gravity has been graciously rejected, they were climbing. A fierce, focused focus—catch them—overcame the fear that felt like a cold fist in her chest.The why and the how didn't matter. She had kids in the skies. She got closer. They were sitting calmly in mid-air, about fifty feet above her now, as though on an invisible platform. Phoenix gestured toward a cloud. Ash's fist was being chewed. She yelled, "I've got you!" but the wind cut her off. As she flew up between them, she extended her arms. Pulling them close to her, she put one arm around Ash and one around Phoenix. They were chuckling, firm, and warm. Their climb halted the instant she had them safely in place. As though their mission ha

There was no room for fear in the tiny kitchen. It couldn't breathe, couldn't become great. The fear was personal, domestic, and hence all the more heinous. A cheap cooker is haunted by a cartoon ghost. Mira rushed under Tatiana's legs and screamed, a quick, sharp cry of genuine childlike horror. It sounded like dry leaves skittering on pavement as the Benjamin-cutout laughed. It pointed to the pitiful carrot pot with its free, papery hand. However, this won't work. Not for my family. It threw the wriggling, attracted infant into the saucepan. With a slight sizzle and a puff of steam scented with crayon, the infant vanished into the simmering orange purée. Here, Tatiana lacked wings. She had no firearm. She was frozen in place with a fear and a wooden spoon. The cutout unlocked their small cupboard after floating to it. There was a blue box of macaroni and cheese inside, where there had been a can of beans and half a bag of rice. The kind that comes in the packet of powdered chees

Compared to lead, the titanium card was heavier. Tatiana held it over the gas hob in the kitchen sink. Phoenix fire wasn't necessary for this. This cleansing was distinct from the others. She turned on the hob. Hissing to life was a brilliant blue flame. She held the card in its corner. Unlike plastic, the metal did not melt. It twisted. The two names blended into an unintelligible, shimmering smear as the sleek, contemporary typeface of WHITAKER-HARRINGTON bubbled and blurred. The card changed from chilly grey to a brilliant orange as the heat moved up it. She let it fall into the washbasin made of stainless steel. Curled, charred, ruined, it lay there. The mansion surrounding them started to shrink as it cooled with a series of faint ticks. The pop wasn't abrupt. The expansion that gave rise to it was slowly and nauseatingly reversed. They were pressed down by the lowering vaulted ceiling. The panoramic windows shrank, revealing a sliver of Georgetown before the alley's typical

It was a violent transition. A whip of chilly, fuel-scented wind and the mechanical, shattering scream of turbines tore away the stifling calm of the corridor. The ghostly blue runway lights of a private airport illuminated the white light, which resolved into the hazy grey of a pre-dawn fog. With a quiet click, the grey metal door disappeared behind them as they staggered out. They were on the tarmac itself, not on firm ground. Biting through her thin trousers, Tatiana fell to her knees on the uneven tarmac. She was gasping, the deep, bone-deep exhaustion of advanced age tearing through her body. Splayed on the ground, her hands were spotted, veined, and gnarled. She was feeling very elderly. Young and confused, Alexander gazed about while still clutching the twins. With a horrified expression on her face, Mira-7 stood between them, holding onto her mother's shoulder. Tatiana's elderly neck protested as she pushed her head upward. In front of them sat a matte-black Gulfstream G7