Triptych

J.M. FREY

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Third Edition published in 2020 by Here There Be Publishing, by J.M. Frey

Second Edition published in 2018 by Strange Fuse, an imprint of Short Fuse Publishing, a division of Fuse Literary, Inc.

First Edition published in 2011 by Dragon Moon Press, and edited by Gabrielle Harbowy.

www.jmfrey.net

Text copyright © 2020 by Jessica Marie Frey

Cover design copyright © 2020 by Rodney V. Smith & Adrienne Kress

Interior design © 2020 by Brienne E. Wright

Cover images courtesy of Shutterstock

Cover font: Nova Stamp by Billy Argel Fonts

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. All inquiries should be addressed to jessica.marie.frey@gmail.com

ISBN 978-1-7753402-1-8 (Paperback)

San Francisco Book Festival Award Winner

Nominated for 2 Lambda Literary Awards CBC Bookie Award Nominee London Book Festival Honorable Mention A Best Overlooked Book of the Year by The Advocate

#3 Best Book of the Year in SF/F/H by Publishers Weekly

Time travel, aliens, and the politics of sexuality combine with tragic violence in Frey’s deeply satisfying debut . . . The story is so well-grounded in the characters that it never once loses its course. Frey tells the story from varying points of view in distinct voices, imagining a world at once completely alien and utterly human.

–Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

A stirring adventure, as well as a tender love story, from a first time author who truly embraces the limitless possibilities the future may bring. JM Frey’s Triptych satisfies any sci-fi reader looking for a different take on the first contact motif, or anyone looking to explore the possible evolution of human sexuality and love.

–Lambda Literary

I was afraid we’d be left with a lot of technical asides and scientific musings to explore the aliens. Fortunately, nothing could be further from the truth. Instead of being cold and clinical, the approach here is warm and human. I won’t spoil any of what happens between them, but I will say I shed tears of joy and tears of sorrow for this unusual family, and that’s an accomplishment few authors can claim. Not only is this a wonderful story, but it’s a wonderfully told story.

–Sally Sapphire, Bending the Bookshelf

The big mindblowing debut I’ve seen this year has been J.M. Frey’s Triptych, and it’s from such a small press that I doubt it will get the attention it deserves.

–Rose Fox, Genreville blog

I finished Triptych in one go last night, couldn’t put it down even. It’s a very impressive first novel and if Ms. Frey continues to do with science fiction what she’s done in this book she might single-handedly be credited with reviving the entire genre. Bravo! Encore, encore!

—Todd McCaffrey, The Dragonriders of Pern series

A brilliantly challenging piece of pure Science Fiction.

–Dr. Mike Perschon, The Steampunk Scholar

I would never have discovered Triptych, by J.M. Frey, had I not first met the editor, Gabrielle Harbowy. We were talking about stories that challenge conventional notions not only of sexuality but of family, and she mentioned this debut novel by Canadian J.M. Frey. The cover reveals nothing of the story within—part queer love story, part alien first encounter story, part time travel adventure, part mystery, part exploration of polyamory, all laced with skillfully woven dramatic tension and a sure understanding of the needs of the human heart.

–Deborah J. Ross, the Darkover and Seven-Petaled Shield series

Just finished it. Miss it already. Write another! It was unput-downable!

–Jill Golick, co-creator of Ruby Skye, P.I. and president of the Writers Guild of Canada

Frey delivers gloriously unpretentious science fiction, with enough fun and romantic intrigue to make you forget that something smart is going on until the closing pages.

—Liana K., Co-Host, Writer & Producer for Ed The Sock

From the luscious prose of literary fiction in what could easily have been stock sci-fi, the skillful use of clichés and pop-culture references for a geek-dream-come-true, the heart-wrenchingly true characters and complex relationships, to the use of time travel to NOT pull all the cinema-stunts you expect when you hear time-travel, the book was a sheer joy to read.

-Leah Peterson, Fighting Gravity

J.M. Frey’s ability to draw one into her story is irrefutable. I am impressed by the strength of her plot and the way her characters come to life.

–Jillian Boheme, Stormrise

TRIPTYCH really works the emotional states of the characters and the readers simultaneously. For me, a book that can evoke so many feelings in me is perfection . . . I love how sex, sexuality, gender, identity, prejudice and love intermix in such mind blowing ways.

–Doctor Jennifer Brayton, Associate Professor of Sociology, Ryerson University

PRAISE FOR TRIPTYCH

The Accidental Turn Series

The Untold Tale, book one of the Accidental Turn Series

Ivy, an Accidental Comic

Home, an Accidental Short

Ghosts, an Accidental Novella

The Forgotten Tale, book two of the Accidental Turn Series

Happiness, an Accidental Short

Arrivals, an Accidental Novella

The Silenced Tale, book three of the Accidental Turn Series

Health, an Accidental Short

The Accidental Collection

The Skylark’s Saga

The Skylark’s Song

The Skylark’s Sacrifice

Shorts

(Back)

On His Birthday, Reginald Got

The Dark Lord and the Seamstress, a coloring storybook

The Moral of the Story in Wrestling With Gods: Tesseracts 18

Zmeu in Gods, Memes, and Monsters

The Promise in Valor 2

Novellas

City By Night

Collections

Hero Is A Four Letter Word

Non-Fiction

Whose Doctor? in Doctor Who In Time And Space: Essays on Themes, Characters, History and Fandom, 1963–2012

How Fanfiction Made Me Gay, in The Secret Loves of Geek Girls

Time to Move, in The Secret Loves of Geek Girls Redux

Comics

Bloodsuckers and Toronto the Rude in The Toronto Comic Anthology vol 2

TTC Gothic in The Toronto Comic Anthology vol 5

ALSO BY J.M. FREY

For Mom and Dad,

who have always encouraged me to follow my storytelling inclinations, and who tell the best stories of their own adventures when they were my age.

This one was always supposed to be for you.

A BODY COLLAPSING WITH NO muscular control onto plush carpeting makes a kind of muffled thudding, all raw meat and cut strings. Doctor Basil Grey had heard other, more horrible sounds in his thirty-three years. He’d heard screams more gorge-raising. He’d felt more threatened by the piercing shriek of experimental components as their structural integrity began to fail in close proximity to, well, his very valuable self. He’d suffered the grating whines of undergrads, the sobs of grad students over the latest drafts of their theses, and the heated yelling matches between colleagues with differing grasps of a theory. He’d lived through the screeching of his older sisters fighting over whose turn it was in which bathroom. He’d been in a car crash once, the terrible scraping thud haunting his nightmares for years afterwards.

They were all horrendous sounds, and he had ranked them, once, by order of how much they made his teeth ache. But now he quickly reevaluated his internal top-ten list. This particular sound was above and beyond the worst he’d ever heard in his life.

Something in his gut burned, like a punch had landed solidly to his solar plexus. Basil doubled over, breath forced from his lungs. For a ridiculous, dissonant second, he thought he was the one who had been shot.

No, he moaned, and only realized after the fact that it was he who’d made the soft, wounded animal sound. It was unnaturally loud in the aftermath of the flat, empty crack of a bullet leaving a barrel.

Already partway down, he let gravity pull him the rest of the way to the floor. He reached out before he could stop himself, scrabbing, shaking, and forced his hand into Kalp’s, laid his other palm across Kalp’s cheek. His throat closed up and he struggled to fight against the revulsion from the limpness of the fingers wrapped around his hand; from the already waxy feel of the skin under the bristles on Kalp’s jaw.

Kalp blinked, just once, and turned his head towards Basil. And then, somehow, he was gone. There was no death rattle, no dramatic final breath, just . . . life in his eyes, and then . . . none.

Kalp was dead.

Kalp was dead on the living room floor.

Basil jerked backwards, away from the thing that he now touched, the thing that wasn’t . . . that was still so warm, and dead bodies weren’t supposed to be warm. They were never warm in the movies. But Kalp radiated heat like a little rain forest. Had radiated, no longer in the present . . . goddamnit all to hell and goddamn the tenses too.

Then Basil’s other instinct, the desperate need to deny, jumped to the fore and he surged forward to try to shake Kalp back into breathing. The purple-red blood was still oozing out of a fist-sized wound, growing ever more sluggish as the seconds ticked by. Basil jammed his hand over the blooming injury, pushed in his fist in a desperate, futile effort to stop the flow. Limp blue fur tickled his knuckles. Dark skin cooled irrationally rapidly, becoming sharply chilly in the still air, making goose pimples burst upwards along his arms.

Basil called to Kalp, kept calling long after it was obvious that Kalp could never respond, because no, this couldn’t be it, this couldn’t be all. Not after everything else, not after all they’d lost, he couldn’t accept it, he couldn’t just let Kalp die in their own house, in the one place that the Institute had promised they would be safe, goddamn it.

He looked up. Standing in the fore of the tightly packed group of a handful of Special Ops soldiers from the Institute, a veritable phalanx of Kevlar and scowls, Agent Aitken had gone ashen and grim. Her gun was pointed at the ceiling now, but her finger was still on the trigger, her knuckles pale around the grip. Basil imagined that he could see smoke curling out of the barrel.

Why? Basil shouted, and everyone in the room jumped at the sudden submachine spray of words. "What the fuck d’you do that for!"

Aitken swallowed and her grim composure cracked for half a second. The hostile was—

My husband was—

"No, you don’t understand. He had to be —"

"Shut up. Shut up!" Basil shrieked, forgetting about staunching the blood flow. He lunged up to wrap clawed fingers, purple as Kalp’s blood dried, around Aitken’s neck. She dodged back, and the two other soldiers from the corps surged forward and dragged him bodily away from her. Basil kicked out, furious, his face hot and his head burning.

Kalp, God, no, Kalp . . .

Gwen! Where are you? Basil screamed. "Call an ambulance, fuck, someone arrest that crazy woman, someone do summat! She shot Kalp!"

Aitken stepped back, into the kitchen and out of the way. She holstered her gun and lifted her hand to probe around her neck, then the other hand went to her ear-mounted transmitter and clicked it on. She whispered urgently and softly into the microphone, expression twisted into a sneer even though her lips were chalky. Basil saw the words backup and meatwagon fall like cannonballs from her mouth. Nobody made a move to stop her.

Basil looked around at the faces of his fellow Specialists in disbelief. Some averted their eyes. The rest just frowned. Behind them, Basil’s living room suddenly looked surreal and wrong. A teacup was resting on its side on the coffee table, and beside it, stacked neatly, there was a small bundle of files. They looked like some review work someone had left for half a second, just to nip up to the loo, and meant to return to. On the dining room table sat a torn piece of paper and some strange lump of twisted metal that Basil only half saw but couldn’t force his shocky brain to recognize. It all seemed too . . . domestic for what was on the floor.

Basil lunged for Aitken again.

At least, he tried, but a matched set of agonizing grips on the insides of his elbows wrenched him back. A fleeting thought ran across his mind—a complaint about whiplash, pulled muscles, maybe something particularly snippy about manhandling—but Basil couldn’t spare the brainpower for his habitual bitchiness just now. He bent his knees, trying to regain forward momentum, trying to pull with his center of gravity.

Calm down, Dr. Grey! one of the grunts shouted in his ear, yanking him back so hard something in his shoulder twisted and popped and began to burn.

Basil yelped, feet skidding out from under him in his surprised pain, and they wrestled him towards the front door. He thrashed from side to side, ignoring—no, revelling in—the biting needles that were broadcasting out of his shoulder socket, concentric circles of throbbing agony and clarity. The pain made everything clearer. It made the truth too true to bear.

He jabbed out with his elbows, but he only succeeded in getting himself all the more tangled in the soldiers’ unforgiving grip. The soles of his boots slipped and skidded against the polished hardwood floors, along the white tile of the entryway. They caught the corner of the dirt-dull shoe carpet, dragging it across the threshold along with the three struggling men, out onto the cement stoop.

But he could not make them stop.

Kalp! Gwen! he screamed, and he felt something rip in his throat, the hot burn of anger and grief and pain.

Kalp couldn’t, he just . . . it just . . . no.

He’s dead, Dr. Grey, the same grunt said, and he didn’t even try to say it nicely, didn’t even try to soften the blow.

You don’t, y’don’t knowit, Basil insisted, digging heels ineffectually into the concrete of the stairs, trying to haul himself and his captors bodily back through the gaping door. He could see, see the slow spread of browning purple, the ghastly streak of turquoise lying still, motionless in the pool. You don’t know about them, maybe, we don’t know everything about their physiology, maybe he’s in a coma, or, or his breathing is irregular, he could be fine, God, just let me, let me—!

No, doc. He’s gone.

Basil buckled as his knees went out from under him, like they couldn’t stand the thought of functioning anymore, not when Kalp was . . . One of the soldiers let go, and the other guided him to the softer scrubby turf of the postage-sized front garden. Basil’s whole body felt heavy and shaky, like it wasn’t his. It was too hot, too shivery, too much by far right now to have ever been something that Basil lived in.

And Gwen, where was Gwen?

He called out her name, looked up, around. She wasn’t there. Across the street, Mrs. Baldwin stuck her nose out of the door, blanched, and darted it back in. Basil sat in the middle of the lawn and tried to remember how to breathe. Alone.

There were no sirens when the Institute arrived. There were only big, square black SUVs coming up the side road, pulling up in front of the house, a cube van behind. All the windows were black, black. A man in a coroner’s tee-shirt climbed out of the van’s cab. It was Doctor Zhang, xenobiologist. And lately, mortician.

No! Basil said again and surged to his feet. He turned back to the house, but his way was blocked by one of the soldiers.

Gwen appeared in the doorway then, finally, and Basil took a step towards her before he registered the look on her face and stopped; grim, closed down, nothing. She was dressed in brand-new swat gear like a doll of a soldier: eyes empty, every new strap unfrayed, every buckle still blindingly factory-issue shiny. Her mouth was painted in a flat line, her lips held so tightly together that they had taken on the same shade of pale as the rest of her vacant face.

She was not angry. She was not sad. She was . . . nothing.

Men in suits piled out of the SUVs and she let them into the house. They shut the door behind them. She stood on the stoop.

Gwen! Basil snarled. He shoved at the soldier and the man still would not let him by. "Bloody hell, lemmie go. That’s my wife."

Gwen descended the stairs, one hand curled over the butt of her gun in its thigh holster, and stopped a good few feet away. He reached out to her.

There’s blood on your hands, she said. Come on, we’re going to the Institute.

No. Basil jerked his hands back and folding them against his chest, tucking his knuckles under his armpits. This was it, this was all he was ever going to get of Kalp ever again. He couldn’t—he couldn’t just wash it off. Like it was dirt.

Like it was filth.

Gwen grabbed his sleeve, nodded to the soldier, and together they herded Basil into the first SUV like a mulish child. More neighbours had their faces pressed to glass, had their hands over their children’s eyes as they stood together on front steps and by driveways. Basil resisted getting into the SUV, locking his arms at the elbows, refusing to let them whisk him away, to make him leave behind . . .

But Basil wasn’t exactly the most stunning example of physical fitness, and it was three against one. Between the soldiers and Gwen they got him stuffed into the back. The driver hastily engaged the child lock. Gwen zipped around and nipped in the other door before Basil had even registered that she was getting in with him.

He pounded at the window, scrabbling at the latch, and screamed, "No, no, Gwen, they killed him, we can’t, we can’t just go with them, we can’t just let them . . . !"

Shut up, Baz, Gwen hissed from beside him. She raised her fists and Basil shied back. She caught herself, eyes popping wide, showing white all around. She swallowed heavily once, twice. She looked like she was about to be sick. She dropped her hands to her hips, forced the fingers into a fanned flex. Just . . . shut up, she whispered, and turned her body away, firmly directed her face out the window.

The SUV began moving. The quiet rowhouse suburb rolled by the windows. Basil wasn’t sure he was ever going to see it again.

He folded over on himself, felt the burn and the fury and the too-hot surge of more tears crawl up his throat, then push at the back of his eyes. He clenched his fingers into his hair and wailed, and screamed, and sobbed until every muscle in his back throbbed with the effort of remembering to breathe. Until his throat felt shredded. He swallowed and tasted blood.

When Basil’s cries wound down to soft, fat hitches and the continual roll of tears down already soaked cheeks, the slow slide of snot across his upper lip, he felt Gwen reach out. She slid her damp palm down his neck, across his collarbone, igniting the ache there; then down his bicep, over his elbow. She twined her fingers around his.

He grabbed back, held on, held on, held on.

Kalp’s blood was itchy between their palms.

🚀

The debriefing cell was cold and grey. Basil stared at the painted floor between his knees. Gwen was there with him, he could see her out of the corner of his eye, noted more than registered. But he couldn’t seem to lift his head. Not for her words, not for the cup of now-stone-cold tea she’d brought in for him, not for anything.

He was angry enough to throw something—the chairs and table, maybe, only they were metal and bolted to the floor. At any rate, he was too exhausted to move, to put furious thought into violent action.

His throat was killing him. He wanted water, or something, he wasn’t sure. Maybe orange juice. That would make the pain worse, wouldn’t it? Fill the small cuts in the soft tissue of his throat with an acidic bite. Yeah, that could be good; make the pain on the outside match what was eating him to pieces on the inside.

Some psych Specialist had suggested they talk about it well into their first hour. How long ago that was now, Basil didn’t know. He hadn’t replied. It hurt to reply. He just sat there with his forehead on the edge of the table, hunched over and staring at the painted floor.

Who the hell paints a concrete floor, anyway?

His brain said: seals in dust lessens airflow deadens echo and the travel of sound easier to clean, and he shook his head. All the little fragments of thoughts scattered out of his ears like pepper from a mill. He went back to being empty.

Alone.

Basil shifted his eyes to his hands. Palm up on his thighs, curled slightly. He looked like he was trying to catch words, the same strange non-verbal gesture that Kalp did to indicate that he was listening, paying attention, focused. The same way Kalp used to.

Hell.

Basil quickly turned his hands over.

Some of his own blood was mingled with . . . Basil had cut himself with his own fingernails while making a fist, impotent in the black void that was the rear of the SUV. Yesterday he would have been worried about cross contamination, his blood mingling with another species’, but now all he could think was yes, inside me, under my skin, he’s safe there, yes.

Gwen moved from the corner and sat down beside him. He knew it was Gwen, would know even if he was deaf and blindfolded. Even if he’d had all his senses deprived, taken, he’d know Gwen. The skin on his face tried to crawl away from her, goosebumping painfully.

Basil, she said softly, and then her fingers were curled into his palm, soft and surprisingly cool. She clucked her tongue once, the tip of her own nails tracing the punctures his had made. Oh, Basil, she said again, and this time it sounded like a pet name, like a soft and meaningful sweetie or baby. But Gwen had never really indulged in pet names, and Basil had felt stupid calling her pumpkin when the most she ever called him was Baz. No pet names for them. Sometimes he called her colonist, but that was when they were teasing.

Now she made his name sound . . . what? Like it was the name of a moping child, or a pouting lover. Like he was foolish. Condescending.

Basil straightened and yanked his hands out of her grip. He turned his face away. He didn’t want her to see how chapped his upper lip was, how swollen his eyes were. He could see how miserable he looked in the specialty glass that made up an entire wall.

Stuck on the mirror side for once, Basil thought. Self-pity turned to anger. I didn’t do anything wrong!

Something soft and wet and warm touched the side of one of Basil’s knuckles, and he looked down. Gwen had one of her hands in his palm, a wet washcloth cutting a peach slash through the rusty burgundy that was flaking off of his skin.

He wanted to pull back, scream no! and push Gwen away.

But even Basil knew that he’d have to wash off Kalp’s blood sometime. Logically.

Gwen turned his hand over and Basil let her, slow and reverent and ritualistic as she scraped at the clots that had gathered in the wrinkles of his joints, the small turquoise hairs that were caught under his nails. She had a shallow bucket of warm water. Basil wasn’t certain when it had arrived, but then it wasn’t exactly like he’d been paying attention, was it?

The water grew progressively more violet as Basil’s hands turned white with scrubbing. He watched morosely, eyes dry and sore, the tip of his nose throbbing. Gwen slowly, gently ran the cloth across the backs of his hands, along the tender thin skin under his wrist, between his knuckles and along the fine webbing of his fingers, across the intimate mound that was the base of his thumb.

Gwen took her time with his nail beds, chasing after every speck before turning his hand over and slowly and just as carefully cleaning out the fingernail wounds. When she was finished, she left the limp rag draped over the side of the white bucket, dripping watered-down blood onto the grey table top.

Basil had to turn his head away to keep from retching.

Gwen pulled a small tube from her tactical vest. It was the liquid band-aid that all Special Ops personnel were assigned in their field med kits, the one enhanced with alien technology. Basil hissed as the antiseptic in the opaque jelly went to work first. Gwen smoothed a small amount over each cut with the small brush and Basil refused to whimper. He bit his bottom lip until the sting gave way to the warm tingle that meant the epidermal repair serum had gone into effect. In a few hours, no one would even be able to tell that he had harmed himself at all.

Make the cuts again, he thought rebelliously, make the pain on the outside match!

But no, Basil didn’t like pain. Especially the self-inflicted kind. And he hurt so much right now that it seemed redundant to just add more. Gwen reached out and took up the cloth again, turned it over, folded the dirty side in, and wiped gently at the salt water dried onto Basil’s cheeks, the leftover snot at the sides of his nostrils.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the tip of his abused nose.

Kalp’s dead, Basil said softly.

Gwen paused, lips still touching his skin. Basil felt them stiffen along with the rest of her posture. She pulled back, eyes down, not meeting his desperate gaze. Desperate, yes, for confirmation, for sympathy, for grief, fuck, for some sign that Gwen was hurting as much as Basil was, that she was hurting at all.

Gwen turned away and dropped the cloth into the bucket. She stood and went over to the door and left it by the corner of the jamb, on the floor. Basil couldn’t help but notice that it was in such a place that made it easy for someone to fetch it and slam the door back closed without opening the door too wide or for too long.

At first Basil thought that Gwen hadn’t heard him, but then, with her eyes on the door handle, shoulders slumped, she said, Yes.

Basil took this for a good sign, that Gwen had come out of whatever weird stoic shock she had thrown up like a shield, that she was going to start crying soon. Just, any proof that she was grieving, too.

Basil stood and went over to her, ready for her to turn her face against his neck and weep. He held his arms out slightly, and tried not to think of the last time they’d clung to each other like that, in the graveyard on the night they’d buried Gareth.

God, Gareth. Kalp would have to go into the plot beside Gareth.

Wrong, Basil’s mind screamed. It was supposed to be me next!

What Basil’s tongue tripped out was: We should . . . organize . . . oh God, I dunno what to do, for the Ceremony of Mourning, we have to . . .

No.

She didn’t turn to face him. She didn’t even sound sad.

Basil wrapped his fingers around Gwen’s hands, squeezing hard. ‘Course we . . . why not?

No, Gwen repeated, and pulled her hands away, slowly but firmly. Detaching. Not for traitors.

Gwen! Basil gasped, so surprised as to be scandalized. You can’t really think—

Don’t tell me what I really think! Fire lit her eyes, flamed her cheeks for half a second and Basil hoped that she was finally reacting . . . but no. She shut down again, went cold and constrained.

Basil felt like a song left on loop. Gwen!

No. She moved to the other side of the room, put the table between them. She folded her hands over her stomach and bent her head.

Gwen stared at him, long and hard, and Basil was startled to see the white lines wrinkling the skin around her eyes, the corner of her mouth. There was silver streaking her temples, the little inlet of hair that peaked around her scar. Basil was sure, so sure that it hadn’t been there at all this morning. Gwen looked weary. Old.

He was my husband, too, she whispered.

Then . . . then c’mere. Basil held out his hand. Gwen slowly, as if she feared what the touch of his skin might do, reached out, up. Their fingertips brushed.

She didn’t step into him, didn’t fold her sweet soft arms around him or pillow her cheek against his chest, but for now that little bit of contact was enough. It was better than nothing.

Basil closed his eyes and wished that he could start this day all over again. What he needed was a cosmic reset. A big red button that he could press or a trigger that he could pull that would let him go back in time and . . . and . . .

Basil gasped.

The thingy! he shouted and clicked his fingers. That’s it, innit? Get me that crumpled metal thingy from my dining room table!

BEFORE

The day dawned crisp and (too early) sweet.

September light dropped heavily over the stretching acreage of the farm, drenching the quiet world in the warm sepia of all the best nostalgia. The sky was the sort of open blue that prompted content, indulgent thoughts of a step-ladder and a spoon, just to see if it tasted as ripe as it looked. For a breathless second, even the birds and the insects seemed to share in the gentle glory of the early autumn sunrise, too awed to break the hush with the busy matter of attracting a mate.

It was, of course, promptly shattered by Gwennie’s shrill demand for breakfast. She was always better when someone else did the waking, lazy-eyed and pillowy and pliable.

S’comin’, s’comin’, Mark mumbled into the comforter. He heaved himself upright. His wife cracked a sandy eyelid in sympathy as he poked sleep-warmed feet into the chill morning air. Dawn feedings were Mark’s responsibility. He had to get up to do the milking, anyway. He hinged upwards like a rusty door, legs crooked and then holding him up as if gravity was some sort of recent miracle and he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of moving with it just yet.

Safe from the comfort of her down duvet, Evvie winced as Mark ricocheted off the corner of the solid wood dresser—an heirloom from his own grandfather’s farm, if you could call such a battered and scuffed hunk of wood an heirloom—as he struggled to pull on a pair of jeans that he’d left crumpled on the foot of the bed the night before. A year ago, Evvie would have appreciated the flex of his biceps, the fact that he’d neglected to put on anything else under the denim; that