The first day of spring break smelled suspiciously like the beginning of summer.

Backpack slung over his shoulder, Marco hopped onto his bike and checked one more time that neither Alejandro nor Alma was following him. In Alma’s case, it didn’t much matter, he knew—even if she wasn’t following him now, it didn’t mean she couldn’t pop up uninvited later if she wanted. She had an eerie knack for it.

But it was Alejandro he was really concerned about. Ever since Marco’s miraculous recovery from near-death and his visit with God, Irma was convinced that her son was protected by Divine providence. It had never occurred to her, of course, to inquire whether the god in question was The Father Almighty, the Holy Triumvirate, I Am That I Am. If she had known that this particular god was an impatient Leporidae with a self-proclaimed penchant for beer and no omniscience or omnipotence to speak of, things would have turned out differently. But for a devout Catholic woman with little exposure to cultures outside her own, the word “god” had only one meaning.  Which was lucky for Marco, for the upshot of her new conviction was that she believed whole-heartedly that her youngest son was immune to the perils of the world. She had largely withdrawn herself from the role of his protector; as long as he was home for dinner, Irma no longer inquired about her son’s whereabouts.

But her leniency toward Marco did not extend to Alejandro, an injustice the older twin sought desperately to right. In the past, Alejandro suffered Marco’s presence grudgingly, but now that Marco had much freer range than he did, Alejandro became Marco’s shadow, stealing opportunity for adventure and trouble.

But a thorough check assured Marco that Alejandro wasn’t following now, so with a smile and a breath of relief, Marco took off for the Badlands, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

Satsuko and Mitsuo were sunning themselves on a couple of beach towels when Marco rode up. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Satsuko sat upright, smiled brightly at the boy. She waved to him, dropped him a wink. “The prodigal son returns!” she called. “Thought you forgot about us, little man. Thought maybe you were too good for us.”

Marco hopped off his bike, nudging the kickstand into place with his toe. “Naw, I didn’t forget,” Marco said. “I just had school, and my brother’s been following me everywhere even though he’s not supposed to. It’s spring break now, though. I think he got other friends to play with.”

Marco dropped down next to Satsuko, crossing his legs Indian style. He leaned back onto his palms and looked up into the sky. “It’s getting hot,” he said. “Last year for Easter me and Alex didn’t find all our chocolates and they melted in the sun.”

Satsuko giggled, mussed Marco’s hair. “You ready for your tarot lesson? We have ice cream.” She said this last part with a broad smile.

“Cookie dough?”

“Candy jar,” Mitsuo said.

Marco nodded his approval, and the trio gathered the towels and made their way to the ramshackle trailer Mitsuo and Satsuko called home.

Satsuko kept her cards on the top of an overflowing and dilapidated bookshelf. While Marco cleared the paper plates and soda cans off the kitchen table and Mitsuo scooped out three cones of candy jar ice cream, Satsuko retrieved the cards, shuffling them noiselessly in her expert hands. She placed them on the table in front of Marco and pulled up a green plastic lawn chair to sit beside him.

“This,” she said, tapping the deck with her index finger, “is for you.”

She pushed the cards towards Marco, who looked up at her with wide, incredulous eyes. “You’re giving these to me?” he asked. “I don’t even know how to use them.”

“Someone has to give you your first deck,” Satsuko said. “It’s bad luck if you buy it yourself. So I give you mine.”

Marco took the cards in his hands and rifled through them, taking in the strange imagery and the stark primary colors. They felt good in his hands—they had the worn feel of old paper and smelled of cedar. They pulsed with the warm, erratic undercurrent of Satsuko’s energy. He set them on the table, face up.  Mitsuo handed him his ice cream.

He licked around his cone to keep it from dripping, and with his free hand he spread the cards over the face of the table. Satsuko plucked one from the pile and placed it on front of Marco. “This one is the Fool,” she said. “This is where everything begins. You have to start here. Like a baby. Babies don’t know nothing. But not because they are stupid, they’re just new. This is brand new, you get it?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Curious, Marco eyed the cards, a beautiful cacophony of obscure imagery he didn’t understand. After a moment, he found a card depicting three women dancing together, holding golden cups in their hands. He tapped it with his finger. “This one is friendship,” he said. “This one is us.”

Mitsuo leaned in to get a better look at the cards. “What? No, that’s all chicks on that card.”

Marco picked up the card, pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He knew the people dancing were all women, of course, but to him it made no difference. All the people he had ever really cared about—his mother, his Aunt Conchita, his grandmother, Alma, all his teachers since pre-school—had been women. Men like his father, or his brother, or that rascal Cheehawk Parker, had only let him down. Chucho, though a decent enough man, was never around. The foundation of his world was built on a bedrock of loving femininity.

He put the card down, unruffled. “It’s us,” he said again.

Satusko winked at Marco and leaned in close to him, keeping her voice low. “That why I don’t teach Mitsuo the cards. Got no imagination.” She tapped at her temple with her forefinger, her smile growing brighter.

Sitting back, Satsuko accepted her cone from Mitsuo, and slapped the table with her free hand. “So! Let’s see our first story. You mix up those cards real good and when you ready you draw three. Let’s find out where your story begins.”

“Satusko,” Marco said, uncertain. “How do you know I got a story? Maybe I don’t.”

Satsuko grunted and waved her hand. “You only eight, little man, but you got a story. Everybody do.” She licked her cone and smiled.

Marco couldn’t shuffle the cards while holding the ice cream, so he handed his cone to Satsuko. “Don’t lick it,” he warned, cutting his eyes at her. He liked Satusko, even trusted her, but you could never be too careful with your ice cream.

“Cross my heart,” she said.

Marco gathered the cards in his hands, tapped them lightly on the table top to help them settle. They were overlarge in his small hands, and he frequently dropped them as he attempted to shuffle them. But Satsuko didn’t seem to mind. Patiently, she licked her ice cream—and only her ice cream—until Marco was satisfied that the cards were sufficiently shuffled. He plucked them down on the table in a neat stack and reached for his cone.

Satsuko nodded once in approval, a brisk up, down movement. “Now choose three cards,” she said. “And lay them in a row on the table.”

Marco slipped the first card off the top of the deck and flipped it over. It was a picture of a man walking along a river, his back toward the viewer.

“The eight of cups,” Satsuko said. “Pull another.”

Marco pulled the second card. It was a man wearing a cloak by a river near a few overturned goblets. He appeared deeply troubled.

“Five of cups,” Satsuko said, brow furrowed. “One more.”

Marco didn’t notice the look of worry that had settled into Satsuko’s expression as he flipped over the last card. It was a image of a large heart, floating in the middle of a rain storm, pierced all the way through by three swords.

Satsuko studied the cards a moment, making up her mind. Then she sighed, turned so she was facing Mitsuo. Her face was full of the soft contours of resignation. “Come on, Mitsuo. We have to show Marco the shrine.”

Smoke from the bonfire wound its way  upward into the night sky, carrying off the laments and woes of the day. The residents of the Badlands huddled around the fire, palms stretched toward it, taking in its warmth and comfort. Stone strummed her ukulele quietly and badly, though she was improving—the tentative melody of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” eeked its way out from between blundered notes and sloppy misfingerings. Some of the men passed a joint around. Satsuko and Mitsuo stared into the fire, watching the flames dance their transcendent choreography.

“There’s that woman again.”

Following Satsuko’s gaze, Mitsuo’s eyes fell on a woman clad all in black, a shawl wrapped over her head and shoulders. They’d seen her a few times now at the Badlands— a woman who was not a regular and whose business in their enclave they could not ascertain. She kept her head bent low as she moved nimbly through the shadows, making her way through the shambles as though she had been there many times. No one stopped to speak to her, which wasn’t unusual, and she stopped for no one, scurrying toward the back of the camp. When they couldn’t see her anymore for the thick darkness, the teenagers turned to each other and shrugged.

In the distance, Satsuko could hear thunder. The horizon blinked with pink and lavender light as electricity set the desert sky aflame. The thunder rumbled low, accompanied by the eerie descant of the coyote’s mournful song. Desert music. Satsuko sniffed the air, leaned her head against Mitsuo’s shoulder. “Witching hour,” she whispered.

“What?”

Satsuko closed her eyes, a slow smile spreading on her face. “Got to stick together tonight,” she said. “Spirits are out. Take all your good luck, you don’t watch out.”

Mitsuo smiled, unperturbed. He was used to Satsuko’s superstitious babbling. “Which spirits?”

Satsuko yawned, snuggled closer into Mitsuo’s chest. “Mostly yokai,” she said. “Maybe zashiki-warashi. Steal your drawings. Put gum in your hair.”

Mitsuo felt his skin pimple over. When Satsuko got going it was hard to stop her, and the effects of her tales were often palpable. “Okay,” he said, grinning. “Tell me about it.”

“Yeah, Satsuko,” called another voice. It was one of the regulars, Cannon, so called for his propensity to pass gas violently and loudly. “Let’s hear one of your stories.”

“Ooooh, please?” Stone stopped her strumming, putting the ukulele on her lap. “Your stories are so good.”

Satsuko, who could hardly resist being the center of attention when she was in the mood, cocked an eyebrow at Stone. “What you know about my stories, hippie? Thought you didn’t listen to nothing I say.”

Stone shrugged. “I hear what I wanna hear,” she said.

“Come on, Satsuko,” Mitsuo urged. “We all know you have a story for us. Spill it.”

Satsuko sat up, ran a hand through her tangle of hair. The amber glow of the fire lit up her face like a jack-o-lantern. She grinned, amplifying the effect. In her way, she was beautiful.

“All right! I’ll tell you a story. But you don’t interrupt me!” She cut her eyes at Stone as she said this. “You can ask me your questions after.”

Satsuko cleared her throat and slipped into the subtle trance of the storyteller.

As Satsuko finished her tale, a slow smile spread over the face. She could barely make out the expressions of her audience, but she could tell they’d been listening to every word. After a moment, Cannon cleared his throat and leaned his elbows onto his knees. “So that fox, Zorro-san, was gay?”

Satsuko rolled her eyes, sucked her teeth. “Not gay,” she said. “Zorro-san is a spirit, not man or woman. So he can’t be gay.”

“But you keep calling him a he,” Cannon retorted.

Satsuko shrugged. “It’s just how the story goes,” she explained.

“But what was Zorro-san doing there?” Stone asked. “Why was the fox at the Emperor’s court to begin with?”

Again Satsuko shrugged. “Probably he was going to destroy the court from the inside so he could take over and rule everybody, cause lots of trouble, get famous. Classic espionage,” she said, her eyes twinkling even in the darkness.

Stone looked confused as ever. “But why?”

Satsuko grinned. “For fun. Don’t know much about foxes do you, Stone?”

Stone shook her head. “Guess not.”

“I have lots of fox stories,” Satsuko said. “I can teach you all about foxes. Raccoon dogs, too.” She dropped a wink at Mitsuo, who blushed and looked away.

Now that storytelling hour was over, the Badlanders slowly took their leave of the bonfire, making their way to their own domiciles. Only Satsuko and Mitsuo lingered long enough to see the woman clad in black making her way back into town.

Author’s Note: Hover the mouse over Spanish sentences to reveal English translations.

Lying on the hard ground, wrapped in a blanket, Marco stared up into a cold, gray sky as winter moved slowly, shyly, into Love & War.

December is usually a welcome, though eccentric, guest in the desert. After months of a long, dry summer under a scorched sky and unrelenting sun, desert folk breath a sigh of relief as the wind and cold catch hands, breathless, and knock on the door, apologetic and smiling, wondering if maybe, if it’s all right, they could stay for a while. December ushers in, falls in love with the desert, is sometimes beguiled by its warmth and rosy skies, and for a moment forgets what it is, and wraps the desert in its familiar temperatures and colors. But a heartbeat later, without thinking, December falls into its natural ways, and the sky darkens, and the cold settles in, and the desert folk sit and wait for winter to tire of its stay and rustle out and quickly as it descended.

Alma sat next to Marco, legs crossed, looking down into the turtle pond. She was watching one particular turtle, green and yellowed striped with orange near his eyes, stick its nose out of the water.

“Do you know what these turtles are called?” Alma asked. She put her finger to the water. The turtle ducked back underneath the surface.

Marco reached up, scratched his cheek. “Red-ear sliders,” he said. “Our dad got us one for our birthday last year, but it died. I think Alejandro tried to feed it Pop Tarts.” Since there was nothing in the sky for Marco’s eyes to latch onto, he rolled onto his stomach, propped himself up on his elbows. “They like earthworms and carrots,” he said. “And you have to give them vitamins.” A wind blew and he shivered, his hands retreating into the warmth of his oversized, bright yellow jacket. “I don’t know who gives these turtles vitamins. Or carrots.”

Alma leaned forward, peering deeper into the water. “Do you want to speak Spanish?” she asked.

“No.”

“I think you need the practice,” she said.

Marco sighed. “Alma, I understand Spanish just fine.”

Alma found the turtle again, smiled and wriggled her fingers at it. “Sí, pero no puedes hablar,” Yes, but you can’t speak it she said, ruthlessly ignoring Marco’s wishes. “If you don’t learn Spanish, your mother will be sad. I heard her crying last night,” she said.

Marco sighed. That his mother had been crying, while disconcerting, was not surprising. Over the years, Marco had grown accustomed to his mother’s tears. She didn’t cry loudly, or in a way that demanded attention. She didn’t offer herself to the crying the way other women did. She offered the crying no sanctuary. She cried because she had to, because she was born in the wrong month, because the chiles had been too hot, because the world was not as kind as she had been led to believe. She cried sometimes when she made tortillas—little teardrops making their way down round, sienna-colored cheeks, little sniffling sounds in between prayers to la Virgen de GuadalupeThe Virgin of Guadalupe. She cried as her knitting needles clinked together when she watched spaghetti Westerns, the kind she used to watch when Marco and Alejandro were babies and Irma was still married to their father. She cried when she tucked Marco in at night, smoothing the hair way from his forehead, kissing his cheeks and telling him she loved him so much. So, so much. And she cried when his father called. And he had called last night.

“She wasn’t crying because I don’t speak Spanish,” Marco said. “She was crying because she argued with my father. He wants Alejandro to come live with him in Odessa. My mother doesn’t want Alejandro to go.”

“Does Alejandro want to go?”

“Mother says Alejandro doesn’t know what he wants. He’s just a boy.”

“What does Alejandro say?”

Marco’s jaw clenched. “Alejandro says our father will teach him how to be a man.”

Alma made clicking sounds at the turtle, beckoning it to stick its nose out of the water again. “Don’t you want to be a man?”

“I can be a man here, with my mother,” he said, resolution heavy in his eight-year-old voice. “I don’t need to move to Odessa for that.”

Alma sat back on her heels, looked Marco in the eye. “He doesn’t want you, does he?”

Marco quirked his head to the left, a stiff head shake. “No.”

Alma reached out, ruffled Marco’s hair the way she’d seen his mother do. “I think you’ll be a good man,” she said. She smiled. Her adult teeth were too big for her mouth. They made her look oafish and radiant.

Marco liked the turtle pond not because it reminded him of the turtle he no longer had, the turtle his brother had poisoned with Pop Tarts, but because the water was peaceful, even in the dim gray of winter. The tiny ecosystem brought him peace and comfort. He could come to the pond and talk with Alma, away from people who would ask questions, and he could imagine himself the kind of boy other boys played ball with, the kind of boy dads wanted to visit, the kind of boy that knew what to say to a crying mother to make her smile and chase all her sadness away.

He wasn’t quite as fond of the turtle pond when it had other visitors, as it did now.

Mitsuo and Satsuko were ambling up the path to the water, heads down, hands tucked into the kangaroo pockets of their threadbare sweatshirts, tugging them low. Satsuko was wearing a long pink skirt that was not warm enough for this weather. Her wild hair served as a pink and black halo about her head. She was chewing gum and humming.

“You should go, Alma,” Marco said. He flicked his eyes to the teenagers approaching the pond.

“I don’t want to go,” Alma said, her chin jutting out as she pouted. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Go, Alma,” Marco hissed. “Please.”

But Alma only crossed her arms. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Marco groaned. That was one retort there just was no adequate answer to.

The teenagers came to sit near the pond, keeping a socially appropriate distance from Marco. Mitsuo flipped open his sketchbook, began drawing. Satsuko sprawled out next to him. She seemed oblivious to the cold. Marco watched them without looking like he was watching them.

A wind blew, and a loose piece of paper from Mitsuo’s notebook took to the air, tumbled about, skirted past Marco, headed for the water. Marco jumped to his feet and rescued the paper before it fell into the pond. He examined the drawing, smiled. He walked over to Mitsuo and handed to drawing to him. “You drew Gracey,” he said.

Mitsuo blushed, muttered a thank you, and stuck the paper back in the sketchbook. Marco knelt down beside him. “It looks just like her,” he said. “Even the way her hair is always a mess all over the place.”

Mitsuo chuckled a bit self-consciously, nodded. “Yeah.”

“Gracey lives across the street from me. I’m Marco,” he said.

Mitsuo smiled at the boy. “I’m Mitsuo,” he said. “I work at Gracey’s bakery.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “That’s a funny name,” he said.

“It’s no funnier than Marco,” the teenager replied.

“That’s Spanish.”

The teen shrugged. “Mitsuo’s Japanese,” he said.

Now, Marco looked really surprised. “You’re Japanese? You look white.”

Mitsuo blushed again. “Well, no. I mean, I am white. She gave me that name,” he said, nodding in Satsuko’s direction.

Marco turned to Satsuko, who sat up and opened her mouth to speak when her eyes caught Marco’s. Electricity surged between them. The air around them crackled. Her eyes popped open and she reached out, placed her palms flat against the sides of Marco’s face. She leaned in close, like she was going to kiss him. A soft, slow smile, a disbelieving shake of the head, a serene sigh of bliss. “Do you know what you are?” she breathed.

“I’m a Libra,” Marco stammered.

Satsuko tossed her head back, laughed, didn’t remove her hands from Marco’s face. Her thumbs caressed his skin. “You have it in you,” she whispered. “But you don’t know how to use it.”

“What do you have in you, Marco?” Alma asked. Marco ignored her.

“Aw, leave him alone, Satsuko, you’re freaking him out.” Mitsuo reached for Satsuko, tugged on her sweatshirt.

But Marco wasn’t freaked out. He saw in Satsuko’s eyes a glimmer of something that he knew lived inside him, something unique to him, something he didn’t share with his brother or Alma or anyone. He’d thought it was his alone, a secret sparkle that he harbored, a mystery, a hobgoblin. But Satsuko had it, too. Or something very like it. The realization burned through Marco like fire. He didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

“Do you know how to use it?” Satsuko asked. She pulled her hands away from his face, folded them in her lap.

Marco shook his head. “No,” he said. “Well, only a little. And sometimes I mess it up and bad things happen.” He said this last part in a whisper, rolling the images and sounds from the night of the ouija board over in his mind. He searched Satsuko’s face. “You have it, too?”

Satsuko bit her bottom lip, smiled. “I can teach you,” she whispered. “Would you like that?”

“What are you guys talking about?” Mitsuo and Alma asked their own versions of the question, but neither was answered.

Marco nodded, not trusting his voice. Satsuko clapped her hands once, climbed to her knees and padded over to Mitsuo. She covered one of his hands with hers. “Draw this,” she said.

Obedient, Mitsuo flipped his sketchbook to a fresh page, his pencil hovering over the paper, waiting for Satsuko’s instruction. The girl closed her eyes, her facial muscles going slack. She breathed a few deep breaths, slipped into a trance. She was quiet, utterly still, without so much as a hair on her body bending to a breeze. But then the words started spilling out of her, not quite her own. Marco gave Alma a frightened look. Alma was smiling.

“He has long ears like a hare, but he’s a rabbit. A small body, compact, strong, with long, slender feet, good for jumping. He has bright, black eyes that twinkle, and his face is wise, knowing. He is surrounded by multitudes of others like him; they are brothers and sisters, celebrating. They are frivolous and happy. Eternal. He is called Two Rabbit. He’s waiting for you, Marco, on the other side of the moon.”

Mitsuo sketched furiously, his hand moving over the paper like a man possessed, taking the images Satsuko was feeding him and translating them into lines, arches, shadows. He scribbled madly, his tongue poking out for between his lips as he concentrated. Satsuko was not speaking now, but her hand was still on Mitsuo’s hand, a silent communication bonding them together as Satsuko transmitted and Mitsuo drew. Marco watched, fascinated, and Alma wrapped her arms around him lovingly.

After a long moment, Satusko’s mouth snapped shut, and her face became her own again as the stranger’s mask slipped off. She blinked a few times, smiled brightly at Marco, and beckoned for Mitsuo to hand her the sketch. Gingerly, he separated the paper from the sketchbook and handed it to her. She took the drawing, examined it closely, and then leaned over and kissed Mitsuo on the cheek. He blushed, scowling, but he didn’t push her away.

Satsuko scooted back over to Marco, folding the paper into quarters. She pressed it into his hand. “This is for you,” she said. “This is the first part. You take this paper, and you learn it by heart. Learn everything. Learn what he looks like. Learn what he makes you feel. Learn his name. And then—”

Marco screwed up his face, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “You called him—”

“Shizukani,” she hissed, shaking her head, bringing her finger to her lips in the universal sign for “be quiet.” “I don’t want to know what I said when I was under,” she said. “It was a message for you, not me. Whatever I called him, that wasn’t his name,” she said. “Do you understand the importance of a name?”

On a warm night in a small Mexican village, October 1st, 2001, a baby, small and pale, the color of coffee drowning in milk, slid between his mother’s bloody thighs, head first into the world, screaming. His fists were balled, his face smashed, the black hairs on his head plastered to his skin as he shook with violent sobs, demanding. La partera, the midwife, handed the baby to Irma, who admired him, eyes wide and disbelieving, so full of the inexplicable rush of maternal love, and ushered him directly to her breast. “Un niño,”A boy the midwife revealed, hands clutching at her heart.

Radiant, Irma caressed his cheek with a finger as the baby suckled. “José Alejandro Flores Guzman,” she said. “Hijo de mi alma.” Son of my soul

A few minutes later, the labor pains came again, and the midwife rushed between Irma’s legs as the new mother writhed in pain. “¡Gemelos!” Twins the midwife shouted. “El segundo viene.” The second one is coming.The mother pushed, and a second baby, identical in appearance to the first, slid into the world, his eyes wide open and curious even as he howled. The midwife handed the new baby to Irma, who accepted him in awe, shaking her head with disbelief, tears streaming down her cheeks. With the midwife’s help, Irma held the second baby to her body, offering him her free breast, watched as he suckled lazily. Irma looked up at the midwife, incredulous, and through her tears exclaimed, “Este se parece a mi papá. Lo nombraré José Maria Marco Flores Guzman, como mi padre.” This one looks like my Papa; I will name him José Maria Marco Flores Guzman after my father. At his naming, Marco paused his suckling and offered his mother his first smile; the midwife crossed herself, muttered blessings and prayers. Marco resumed his suckling, and Irma smiled at her two sons as they nursed hungrily and as she cried.

This was the story Irma had told her sons about their birth. He’d heard the story many times. As he’d grown older and the differences between him and his older brother became more marked, Marco wondered how much of their personalities had to do with their names. If Irma had named the first baby Marco for her father, instead of the second, would Alejandro now be quiet, withdrawn, studious, and thoughtful? Would he, Marco, be a different boy if he had been called Ignacio, Juaquin, Diego, or Andrés? He and Alejandro looked so alike. They came into the world the same way. They shared the same heritage, same family, same food, same bedroom. Yet they were so different. Alejandro had, as far as Marco knew, no hint of the kind of abilities that Marco had seen in himself.

Was it the name, then?

Marco nodded solemnly at Satsuko. “I understand,” he said.

Satisfied, Satsuko sat back on her heels. “Good. When you have this information, you come back to me. But now, I’ll teach you another thing.” She seemed to think a moment. “Can you come to the Badlands after school?”

Marco shook his head. “I’m not allowed to go to the Badlands,” he said.

“He’s just a kid,” Mitsuo put in.

Satsuko nodded. She turned to Mitsuo. “You think Gracey’d mind if me and Marco met at her bakery few time a week? No trouble.” Marco raised an eyebrow at Satsuko’s sudden poor English, but Mitsuo appeared to take no notice.

Mitsuo shrugged a shoulder, noncommittal. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can’t hurt to try.”

Satsuko turned back to Marco, smiling. Marco believed in that moment that he would come to love that smile. “I’ll see you there Monday,” she whispered. “After school. I’ll teach you how to see.”

Mornings begin early at most bakeries, and Want Some Pie? was no different. At a quarter past four, Gracey found herself up to her elbows in flour as she guided a tray of single-serving Chocolate For Breakfast pies into the oven.

Mitsuo sauntered through the back door, disheveled as usual, but with confidence in his step and his chin lifted so that you could actually see his eyes. Gracey tried not to smile as he pulled his apron on over his black hoodie. He was practically a different kid from when she’d found him camped out in her barn.

“What’s the special today, Gracey?” The teenager tossed a stray lock of hair from eyes that just missed making contact with Gracey’s.

Hooking her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans, the pie baker leaned back slightly, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A litany of ingredients ran through her mind as though to an internal beat, a private form of meditation she’d practiced as long as he could remember. Rocking back on the heels of her boots, Gracey opened herself to the energy of the morning, let the subtle vibrations and gentle workings of the town fill her from her toes to the crown of her head. Breathing in, she could almost smell the sleeping residents of Love & War, could almost infiltrate their dreams, see what they were seeing, feel what they were feeling. They smelled of spice, of flours, of myriad different ingredients that shifted subtly each morning. Her meditation was an essential part of her magic, though she would never have described it that way. To her, it was simply part of her process, part of how she decided what pies to make that day. It was as much a routine as brushing her hair and teeth.

“Something unusual today, I think,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Apple, cranberry, rosemary. We’ll call it Fourth Thursday Pie. We’ll add a bit of cornmeal to crust.” Opening her eyes, she smiled at her assistant. “You okay to go down to the market? I’ll make you a list.”

“Sure,” Mitsuo said, pulling off the apron he’d just tied on. “And, Miss Gracey, if I haven’t said anything, I really appreciate you giving me this job.”

Gracey waved away the gratitude, ignoring the “Miss” she’d asked him a million times to drop. “I gave you chance; you earned being allowed to stay. It’s not like I could have you squatting in my barn forever,” she said, throwing him a teasing look. “How close are you two to being able to move out of the Badlands?”

Mitsuo shrugged, withdrawing into himself just a little. “I’m sorry you found us out there,” he said. “We weren’t trying to take advantage.” When Gracey didn’t say anything, he continued. “We don’t have enough for rent just yet; you need money for deposits and stuff. The Badlands is fine for now. I was raised in a trailer,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted. “But thanks,” he said.

Gracey was about to interject that there was a difference between living in a trailer and squatting in an abandoned one when the bell over the entrance jingled. Gracey always came in through the front door in the mornings and rarely locked it behind her even though the bakery didn’t open until six. She knew the townsfolk and they knew her; locking the door just seemed an unnecessary bother. So she was surprised to see the Prime of Darkness striding into the bakery, his pink salon smock tied awkwardly around his pauldrons. Gracey had to stifle a smile.

“Darkness! What on earth are you doing up so early?”

The Prime of Darkness sank into a seat near the door, his expression troubled. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, popping a handful of Smarties into his mouth.“You got any day old pie? Blackberry, maybe?”

“‘Course I do,” she said, “but that’s not what you want today.” Reaching into the refrigerated case, Gracey pulled out two plates of caramel pecan pie and set them before him with a napkin and a fork. She watched him take a healthy bite before asking, “Was I right?”

The Prime of Darkness set his fork on the edge of his plate and looked up from his plate in wonder, eyes wide with disbelief. He couldn’t hide his smile as he nodded slowly, still chewing. “It’s brilliant,” he breathed. “It makes me feel …” He cast about for a moment, making groping motions with his hands before settling on, “Happy.”

Gracey nodded.  “I thought it might,” she said, without even a hint of self-doubt. “Anything on your mind you wanna talk about? I got some coffee brewing in the back; Mitsuo ain’t gonna drink any.”

The demon gave her a hard, evaluating look before shaking his head, heavy locks of black hair falling into his face. “No. Just couldn’t sleep.” He cast a sidelong glance at Mitsuo, who watched them discreetly from behind the counter. When he noticed the Prime of Darkness noticing him, he quickly looked away.

The Prime of Darkness motioned for Gracey to come closer, which she did without hesitation. He lowered his voice, looked her in the eye. “You knew about the pie, didn’t you? That it would make me feel good? How did you know that?”

Gracey shrugged. “I always know,” she said simply.

Moving away, she pulled a rag out of her hip pocket and began wiping down tables. “If you don’t have anything to do for the next few hours, you could go down to the turtle pond and look for Old Leviathan.”

The demon looked up from the pie, confused. “Old Leviathan?”

“Bigass turtle,” she said, without looking up. She was scrubbing furiously at a smudge only she could see. “Old Leviathan is the gigantic turtle that lives in the old pond at Bigsbee Park. Way I hear it,  he only comes out at night. And though it’s technically morning, it’s still dark. He’s probably still out.”

The Prime of Darkness took another bite of pie, his expression dreamy as he finished off the first slice. “How big is it?”

Gracey shrugged. “Real big. I haven’t seen him in years. But if I remember correctly, he’s got to be, what, twenty, thirty pounds? We’re talking huge.” She held her hands far apart to demonstrate size, and gave Darkness a bright smile, her dark eyes alive with laughter.

The Prime of Darkness polished off his second slice and pushed himself away from the table. “Okay. I got nothing better to do.” Remembering his manners, the Prime of Darkness nodded in Mitsuo’s direction. “How’s it going?”

Mitsuo lifted his chin in return. “What’s up.”

“Do you need a flashlight?” Gracey asked, her voice respectably level.

The Prime of Darkness gave Gracey a quizzical look. “You know I can see perfectly well in the dark. Thank you for the pie, Gracey. It was really great. Are you cooking dinner tonight?”

Gracey shook her head. “Sorry, cowboy. It’s Tiny’s night.”

The Prime of Darkness made a face. “Tiny can’t cook,” he said. It was almost a whine.

“Well, I’m sure you can still take Irma Flores up on her offer to have you over for dinner,” she said. “Irma cooks the best Mexican food this side of Juárez.”

The demon seemed to think a moment, then nodded his head. “Maybe. See you,” he said. He gave Mitsuo a lame wave, which the teenager ignored, and ducked out the front door. Gracey waited until she heard the rumble of his motorcycle starting before breaking into laughter.

Mitsuo nodded towards the doorway. “That guy really likes to eat, huh?”

Gracey shook her head, her hand to her temple. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“That was cold,” Mitsuo said, not disapprovingly. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone to pull the Old Leviathan on anyone,” he said.

“Even I like a good joke,” Gracey said.

Mitsuo grinned. “You pull it on your sister?”

Gracey shook her head. “Naw, Tiny’s heard my snipe hunting story too many times to fall for that.”

Mitsuo raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You went snipe hunting?”

Laughing again, Gracey gave Mitsuo a kiss on the forehead, much to his mild horror, and slapped him on the back. “Go get my ingredients,” she said. “Sun’ll be up before we know it.”

Situated on the northeastern edge of Love & War on the north side of the tracks, the Badlands bloomed, against all odds, like an apple on a cactus. The Bohemian community that made its home amid the abandoned trailers and detritus of a long-defunct trailer park comprised transients, squatters, wayward artists, and hippies. Though banded together by little more than a long streak of bad luck in life, the settlers of the Badlands slum stuck together and looked out for each other, which was more than could be said of folks with more affluence in larger towns, so by some measures, the folks in the Badlands were getting by better than maybe they realized.

Insular and forgiving as it was, the Badlands had come to attract misfits and nomads of various sorts: pagans, nudists, ex-carnies, gypsies, and communists. What was once merely a blemish on Love & War’s backside had developed into a full-blown infection, but one that, to their credit, the townsfolk saw little reason to treat. As long as the folks in the Badlands kept their philosophies, worldviews, and medicinal herbs mostly to themselves (which they were generally happy to do) the residents of Love & War left the Badlands well enough alone.

Which was a shame really, because the Badlands was a spectacle. Colorful, decrepit, and exuding the constant stench of nag champa, marijuana, and body odor, the Badlands encompassed a variety of contradicting stereotypes and lifestyles without so much as batting an eye. Broken-down RVs and silver trailers were strewn with tie-dyed scarves and motley assortments of table cloths, shawls, and tattered American flags. They served as personal banners, marking territory,  announcing to the community an intention, a presence, an expression of self. Belly dancers sewed tiny bells to the scarves that hung from their doorways; makeshift tribes claiming 1/8th Blackfoot heritage decorated their trailers with animal skins and feathers. NPR, tinny drums, and the crackling of cooking fires composed the bass line of the Badlands soundtrack, against which all other sounds were a blissful, discordant descant.

In the center of this chaos, Mitsuo was sitting cross-legged on the ground, drawing pad balanced precariously on his knee, sketching the profile of the unsuspecting young woman who had arrived the week before with a couple of bikers. She was unconventionally pretty, with a crooked nose and a mouth slightly too big for her face. He liked her eyes the most; they were the color of turtle skin.

He had just begun sketching the curve of her nose when he was bumped from behind by a black and pink whirlwind who tumbled to the ground beside him, flashing a bright smile. “What! You drawing that girl again?”

Mitsuo frowned, scooted away from his assailant. “What’s it to you?”

Satsuko shrugged. “Nothing to me. You could try talking to her, though. Pretty sure she speaks English.”

“Better than you do, I’m sure,” Mitsuo quipped. He shrugged. “I don’t have anything to say to her.” He sketched in rough outlines of her lips. He made them too thin. He erased.

“Well,” Satsuko said, scratching her head, “who knows how much longer she’ll be here, anyway. She’s not permanent. She looks like city to me.”

Mitsuo looked up at the girl, squinted. Satsuko was right. With her hair pulled into a loose ponytail and a faraway look in her eye, the girl had an air of culture about her, and her cheeks were too full to have ever known true hunger. She was probably just passing through, sowing her wild oats before going away to an all-women’s college on the east coast. They got a surprising number of folks like that in the Badlands: folks with an artistic or counterculture curiosity trying to see how the other half lived. They meant no harm. But they were insulting all the same.

“So now I got your attention, why don’t you draw me for a little while? I need a new portrait.” Satsuko tossed her mop of shaggy, badly cut hair and struck a pose. “You haven’t done any of me in a long time.”

Despite himself, Mitsuo grinned. He flipped the page and penciled in a quick sketch of Satsuko with her head tilted back and eyes closed. Her sticking-out-in-every-direction, black and pink hair framed a pale, heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, a broad nose, a full mouth. Her almond eyes had been painted, as usual, with so much shadow she appeared to be wearing a mask. Today she had painted tiny pink stars at the corners of her eyes and the tops of her cheeks. If she were a snake she’d be a warning: too colorful. Poisonous.

“Hey hey, Satsuko, strike that pose, girl. Like RuPaul. Do a twirl!”

Opening her eyes, Satsuko fell out of character and turned to see a tall, skinny white woman strutting behind her, hands on her hips, doing a decent imitation of a model on a catwalk. She strutted a few paces, turned sharply, and posed. Her dreadlocked hair was pushed off her face and held in place by a bandana. She was as deeply tanned and dirty as she was unwelcome. Satsuko scowled at the intruder. “What you want, hippie?”

Stone snapped her fingers, gave a sexy look over a bony shoulder. “You better work! Cover Girl! Sashay, shante!” Her RuPaul impression was flawless, but neither of the teenagers smiled. RuPaul was before their time.

Stone smiled, became herself again. “You got any weed?”

Satsuko and Mitsuo exchanged irritated looks. Satsuko sat down beside her friend as Mitsuo flipped back to his original drawing, concentrating. “No,” he said. “We don’t smoke.”

Stone wasn’t dissuaded. “You don’t smoke, or you don’t smoke?” She wriggled her eyebrows up and down.

Mitsuo looked up, gave Stone a hard, cold stare. The hippie held up her hands, shrinking away from the glare. “All right, all right, the straight-edge vibe, man, I dig.” Craning her neck, she stretched to see Mitsuo’s art pad. She let out an appreciative whistle. “Hey, Mitsuo, that’s pretty good,” she said.

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” he muttered.

But Stone didn’t take the hint. “No, man, I mean, you’re really good. Like, professional quality. I bet you could sell those if you wanted. Well, I wouldn’t pay for it,” she said, smiling, “‘cause I’m broke as shit. But folks with money would. Definitely.”

Mitsuo grunted in response, but stopped sketching just long enough to evaluate his work. He’d started drawing when he was five, and over the past twelve years he’d honed his talent considerably. Having moved beyond the mechanics of catching a person’s physical characteristics on paper, Mitsuo had learned to capture something of his model’s inner fire, that spark that made them who they were. Every line seemed to jump off the page and breathe with life. He’d amassed hundreds of drawings over the years, but having nothing else to do with them, he’d boxed them up and stowed them in one of the trailer’s empty closets.

The sketch on his lap was breathtaking; he’d perfectly captured the new girl’s prim expression, the self-assured way she enjoyed her own company. As a drawing it was lovely, but the portrait would become even more beautiful when he laid down the watercolor. But he’d meant what he said about not needing Stone’s approval. He wasn’t sure of anything else about himself or the world, but he was sure of his talent.

His sketchbook was full of impromptu sketches and watercolors. It was a snapshot of how he saw the world.

“Her name is Alison,” Stone said, pointing with her chin.

Mitsuo flushed a deep red, turned his back to Stone as much he could and still keep Alison in his sights. Satsuko growled.

“Hey, Stone, ain’t you got nothin’ else to do? Can’t you see we’re busy?” Satsuko’s voice was rich with contempt. She gave Stone the evil eye over Mitsuo’s shoulder.

“You’re not doing anything,” Stone said, brow furrowed. “Mitsuo doesn’t need you to draw pictures of other girls.”

“She’s my muse,” Mitsuo said, chuckling. Satsuko punched him playfully in the shoulder.

“Anyway,” Stone said, changing the subject, “I was gonna tell you. Y’all going to the church for that blessing thing?”

The two kids looked up at Stone, this time without scowling. “What blessing thing?”

Stone straightened her back, clearly proud to have town news they didn’t. “You know those Applewhite chicks got that new office over on Church Street? The ones renovating Trinity?”

The kids nodded.

“Well, they’re having some kind of blessing. I think they called it a consecration ceremony? To dedicate the renovation and the ground or something? Everybody’s invited.”

Mitsuo and Satsuko exchanged looks. “Why the hell we’d go to that?” Satsuko asked. Her broken English was completely affected. She was capable of speaking properly if she wanted to. She just rarely wanted to.

“There’ll be free food,” Stone said in a sing-song voice. Her smile was smug.

In the Badlands, “free food” was a magic phrase. Although those in the community who managed a meager income were quick to share what they brought in with the others, nobody every exactly got enough to eat. Cast-off cans of black beans were common debris around the grounds.

Mitsuo shrugged, returned to his drawing. “Sure, that sounds good. As long as they don’t expect us to sing any hymns or anything.”

Stone took a chance and crept closer, dropping to her knees when she got as close as she figured Mitsuo or Satsuko would tolerate. She was in bad need of a shower. “You ain’t got religion?”

Mitsuo smirked. “Don’t have much need for it,” he said, eyes fixed on his model. “They want us to donate money we don’t have to save souls we don’t believe in. I figure if there’s really a God, He wouldn’t be so concerned about whether or not I believe in Him. He’d have better stuff to do.”

Stone snorted. “I guess. Those two women, though—they know somethin’ I don’t. They got this…way about ‘em, I guess? Makes you curious, don’t it?”

Mitsuo shrugged. “Lilac and Lakmei, you mean?”

Stone nodded.

Across the way, Alison stood, stretched, and disappeared into one of the trailers. Sighing, Mitsuo closed the drawing tablet and leaned back onto his hands. “I don’t know much about them,” he admitted. “Haven’t ever seen them come into the bakery. Saw them once with a work crew outside the church, taking pictures. I haven’t ever talked to them, though. Just heard stuff.”

Now, even Satsuko was interested. “What kind of stuff you heard?”

Mitsuo, who wasn’t much for gossip, gave a little shrug. “I don’t know, same kind of stuff you hear about newcomers to any small town, I guess. They keep to themselves too much. They don’t leave their office. They didn’t go to the Simon St. Laine show in Placerita. Stuff like that.”

“I heard the show was awesome,” Stone said. “I heard he floated this woman up off the stage and everything.”

Satsusko sucked her teeth. “No way. That magician need to learn a thing or two about not sucking. Who do you know saw the show anyway, hippie? Your friends ain’t got ticket money,” she said.

“I know some folks,” Stone said, cool as a cucumber. Nothing seemed to rile her up much. She managed to keep pretty mellow no matter what Satsuko said to her, which only served to irritate Satsuko all the more. “So y’all are gonna go, then? To the blessing thing?”

Stone’s intense curiosity was suspicious, and Mitsuo cut his eyes at her, drawing a breath. “Why are you so interested?”

Now, Stone’s cheeks flushed pink and she rubbed at an invisible spot on her arm. “Well, I just wondered, since you got that job at the pie place, if that pie lady was gonna be there? ‘Cuz I’d like to meet her, maybe? And she could tell me what kind of pie I like. Maybe she would let me try some. On the house?”

To anyone else, the request might have sounded ridiculous, but Mitsuo understood. It wasn’t the pie she was after; it was what those pies were purported to do to the eater that she wanted.

With this new understanding,  Mitsuo felt slightly less antagonistic toward his irritating neighbor. He gave her a small smile. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.