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forgotten I’m standing
there.
“I’m starving,” I say.
I remember the sandwich I stuffed into my jacket
pocket. I go back into the foyer to get it. The sandwich has
congealed into a gooey ball. I walk back into the tent, sit
down, and take a bite of the mess in my hand.
Pierce must smell the same thing I do as I bite down:
slightly spoiled lunch meat. His lip curls in disgust. “What
are you eating?”
“I don’t know.”
“You might be a lab rat, but you’re not a real rat. No
need to eat garbage. Go look over there. Lots of delicious
freeze-dried food to choose from. The instructions are
on the packets.” He points toward the propane stove with
the kettle on top. “Make me something, too. Not the beef
enchiladas, though. They taste like Mexicans.”
“Aren’t enchiladas supposed to taste Mexican?”
70
“No, I mean they taste like actual Mexicans. Unwashed
ones.”
He looks at me, and his face goes red faster than a stop-
light. “No offense.”
“No offense about what?”
“Aren’t you—I mean . . . you could be Mexican, right?”
“What?”
“You look, you know, Mexican. Or something.”
“Right. Or something.”
“Although you’ve got green eyes, so maybe you’re Mex-
ican and something else mixed together.”
If I had eyebrows, they’d be arching at that comment.
“Maybe you should stop talking now.”
“Yes, maybe I should, before you decide that I’m some
huge racist jerk and not just an awkward idiot who was
trying to be funny.”
I turn away from him and look through the plastic
packets of food. I have green eyes. That’s what Mrs. Este-
ban told me, too. Until he said it, I wasn’t sure my memory
could be counted on. But this much is true: I have green
eyes.
When the water in the kettle boils, I add it to the con-
tents of the packet. A few minutes later we are both eating
hot, gritty chili. I obviously didn’t let the water hydrate the
food properly, but I was too hungry to wait. My impatience
has been rewarded with kidney beans hard as pebbles.
Pierce doesn’t seem to notice or care. He eats while look-
ing at the computer screen. I guess this is how it’s going
71
to be—him doing whatever he’s doing, and me just sitting
here watching.
Finally he says, “Seriously, you might as well have a rest.
Maybe take a nap. This is going to take a lot longer than I
thought.”
He returns to the computer with a look on his face that
I’d call “entranced.” Maybe “obsessed.”
I realize that I don’t just want to sleep; I have to sleep.
But I can’t. The temperature in the yurt is dropping. After
a few minutes of pacing around and rubbing my hands
together to stay warm, I see Pierce start shivering, too. He
keeps mistyping and swearing. Finally he gets up and puts
a couple of brown bricks into the black pot. The bricks
smolder, then catch. They smell like candle wax.
My head starts to throb. Maybe the sudden heat is get-
ting to me. I sway and almost lose my balance.
“Whoa there. You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re fine? Well, then lie down until the fineness
passes.”
I’m about to say no, but can’t think of why I should.
Lying down is a perfectly good idea when you’re about to
fall down.
I sit down on the mattress, and Pierce lifts my feet up
and positions them for me before covering me with a blan-
ket. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I am inexpressibly grateful and so, naturally, I say noth-
ing.
72
Pierce sits back down and keeps working. The sound of
his fingers on the keyboard, the sight of his profile in those
awful glasses . . . I feel myself starting to drift off.
Just as the world’s edges start to get fuzzy, I hear him
talking to me, although his voice sounds different. It’s
deeper and slower and full of reverb; it’s like he’s reciting
poetry from the far side of a metal tunnel. He’s telling me
there.
“I’m starving,” I say.
I remember the sandwich I stuffed into my jacket
pocket. I go back into the foyer to get it. The sandwich has
congealed into a gooey ball. I walk back into the tent, sit
down, and take a bite of the mess in my hand.
Pierce must smell the same thing I do as I bite down:
slightly spoiled lunch meat. His lip curls in disgust. “What
are you eating?”
“I don’t know.”
“You might be a lab rat, but you’re not a real rat. No
need to eat garbage. Go look over there. Lots of delicious
freeze-dried food to choose from. The instructions are
on the packets.” He points toward the propane stove with
the kettle on top. “Make me something, too. Not the beef
enchiladas, though. They taste like Mexicans.”
“Aren’t enchiladas supposed to taste Mexican?”
70
“No, I mean they taste like actual Mexicans. Unwashed
ones.”
He looks at me, and his face goes red faster than a stop-
light. “No offense.”
“No offense about what?”
“Aren’t you—I mean . . . you could be Mexican, right?”
“What?”
“You look, you know, Mexican. Or something.”
“Right. Or something.”
“Although you’ve got green eyes, so maybe you’re Mex-
ican and something else mixed together.”
If I had eyebrows, they’d be arching at that comment.
“Maybe you should stop talking now.”
“Yes, maybe I should, before you decide that I’m some
huge racist jerk and not just an awkward idiot who was
trying to be funny.”
I turn away from him and look through the plastic
packets of food. I have green eyes. That’s what Mrs. Este-
ban told me, too. Until he said it, I wasn’t sure my memory
could be counted on. But this much is true: I have green
eyes.
When the water in the kettle boils, I add it to the con-
tents of the packet. A few minutes later we are both eating
hot, gritty chili. I obviously didn’t let the water hydrate the
food properly, but I was too hungry to wait. My impatience
has been rewarded with kidney beans hard as pebbles.
Pierce doesn’t seem to notice or care. He eats while look-
ing at the computer screen. I guess this is how it’s going
71
to be—him doing whatever he’s doing, and me just sitting
here watching.
Finally he says, “Seriously, you might as well have a rest.
Maybe take a nap. This is going to take a lot longer than I
thought.”
He returns to the computer with a look on his face that
I’d call “entranced.” Maybe “obsessed.”
I realize that I don’t just want to sleep; I have to sleep.
But I can’t. The temperature in the yurt is dropping. After
a few minutes of pacing around and rubbing my hands
together to stay warm, I see Pierce start shivering, too. He
keeps mistyping and swearing. Finally he gets up and puts
a couple of brown bricks into the black pot. The bricks
smolder, then catch. They smell like candle wax.
My head starts to throb. Maybe the sudden heat is get-
ting to me. I sway and almost lose my balance.
“Whoa there. You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re fine? Well, then lie down until the fineness
passes.”
I’m about to say no, but can’t think of why I should.
Lying down is a perfectly good idea when you’re about to
fall down.
I sit down on the mattress, and Pierce lifts my feet up
and positions them for me before covering me with a blan-
ket. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I am inexpressibly grateful and so, naturally, I say noth-
ing.
72
Pierce sits back down and keeps working. The sound of
his fingers on the keyboard, the sight of his profile in those
awful glasses . . . I feel myself starting to drift off.
Just as the world’s edges start to get fuzzy, I hear him
talking to me, although his voice sounds different. It’s
deeper and slower and full of reverb; it’s like he’s reciting
poetry from the far side of a metal tunnel. He’s telling me
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