The Death of Wil Florencemachen

“Did you hear Wil died?” That’s Kammin. Don’t worry about who Kammin is.

“Wil, like, Wil & Teo, Wil?” That’s me, the usual narrator.

“Wil Florencemachen,” Kammin says.

I look around the kitchen—not mine, not Kammin’s—for some cigarettes. “I used to date his sister,” I say.

“Telluria?” Kammin asks.

Well, yes, I did date Telluria, but that wasn’t who I was thinking of. “Well, yes,” I say, “briefly, but I meant …”

“Dazne?” Kammin asks.

Damn how could I have forgotten Dazne? I loved her so much and so deeply. I would have done anything for her. Well, I thought so, anyway.

“Yeah,” I say. “Dazne,” even though that’s not exactly right.

I can’t find any fucking cigarettes.

“I had some fine neighbors,” Kammin says, “that were Florencemachen girls.”

I frown.

“I dated a few sisters,” I say, almost absently. “Not Teo, though.”

Kammin chuckles, and I look at them, and they stop.

“You know Wil was my best friend,” I say, “when I first moved here.”

“Really?” Kammin asks.

“Yes. Well, one of them.” I look out the window into the yard and see the peacekeeper cruiser outside.

“But it didn’t last,” I say.

“Nothing does, right?” Kammin says.

“Right,” I say.

I leave the kitchen and walk through the house and out a side door—hear the mockingbirds and finches talking—then walk up a slightly inclined hill along a gravel path. It’s a road of sorts, running between the house and other houses, down the hill behind me, up the hill in front.

I find the truck there, silver and blue and white.

It’s unlocked. Within are cigarettes—thank the goddess—and a phone and some keys. I take all of that, light the cig with the lighter in the dashboard, then lock it and close the door.

I walk back down the gravel path as a peacekeeper is walking toward me. He’s got a young kid with him. I don’t know the kid, but I’m pretty sure neither Wil nor Teo has kids, so I assume it’s one of the sisters’ kids.

“Anything that you know,” the peacie says, “that could help us, you just go on ahead and tell us, now.” His voice sounds kind and comforting, but it’s an interrogation.

I let them see me. I don’t ghost or even try to cover my face.

The kid looks at me, but I can’t tell if they’re looking at me or in my direction.

“I don’t know anything,” they say to the peacekeeper. Their voice is young and soft and sad.

I am past them and look back and see they are going toward the truck. Glad I thought to go there when I did.