notice the moment of demise.
After a while, Fan realized Loreen was not returning anytime soon. She desperately had to pee and she scanned the room for any suitable container. On a shelf near the door were some partly used cans of paint and on top of these was a roller tray that she could probably reach, at least if she stood. Fan drew the blanket aside and examined her splinted leg, undoing the bandages within the structure as gingerly as she could, noting how he had wound them so she could redo them herself. Once exposed, her leg looked horrid with a multihued bruise of muddy purples and reds covering most of her left thigh, its shape very much like Australia as it curled about her limb. In school they had briefly studied the origins of the continents, and while Australia wasn’t one of them, the teacher had made a point of likening it to B-Mor, this substantial land that had detached from the rest and become a self-sustaining island, and here it was, tattooed on her leg, this sign of what might as well be a thousand miles away.
She probed the bruise with her fingers, pressing until it hurt, surprised to find that it was not as fragile or tender as she feared. When she twisted her leg, the pain was still searing but she could lift it several inches without too much discomfort. Slowly she swung her legs onto the floor and then bent her good leg and leaned forward and up and onto it, attempting to find her balance. She faltered and had to let herself down on the edge of the cot. She tried twice more before finally being able to stand on her good leg alone. When she tested the other, it was okay, until she tried a normal stance and then it hurt too much; she had to lean on one side of the splint to brace herself, hobbling across the room. She reached as high as she could on the shelf and barely grabbed the roller tray, but it hooked a can of paint, which came down with it as well, nearly landing on her foot. The top popped off and glaring yellow paint—the kind used for marking lines in roads—spewed onto the wood floor. Though it was pointless to be careful now, she crouched as much as she could with a splinted leg, holding the tray beneath her as she pulled her underwear to the side. And in a sweet whoosh she let it all go; it seemed she was relieving herself forever as she stared at the shimmering paint thrown out in the pattern of a seal’s flipper, fully extended, racing through the waters, and all at once she was crying again, in what seemed to her an equally ridiculous deluge. She couldn’t stop either flow, as hard as she tried she couldn’t, even when the padlock chocked and the door swung in to reveal Loreen holding an old green plastic beach pail, her fetching eyes shouting murder. Before Fan could take another breath, Loreen stepped forward and struck her across the cheek with the pail, sending her hard to the floor in a clatter, dismantling the splint and upending the tray and splaying Fan in her own warm, odorous water.
You little bitch! Look at what you’ve done! What a goddamned mess!
Fan, however, could not look, being momentarily blinded by the attack. And when her sight returned, all she could see were the woman’s pudgy, unpainted toes poking out from her rubber sandals, these mini-Loreens traveling pendulously to and fro before they struck, too, in the chest and shoulder and now on her arms, with which she was trying to shield her face. Fan had almost given up, not knowing anymore if she was asleep or awake or dead. But then the blows ceased, and Loreen was down on all fours beside her, and she saw Quig, looming high and wraithlike above them, a long white wand in his hand, its red tip two-pronged. He seemed to have stepped right out of a fantastical movie, like he was one of those warlocks but without a special hat.
I told you, he said softly. Be gentle.
Oh, screw you, Loreen rasped through her teeth. Screw you.
He extended the wand and touched her on the back of the neck. She bucked and
After a while, Fan realized Loreen was not returning anytime soon. She desperately had to pee and she scanned the room for any suitable container. On a shelf near the door were some partly used cans of paint and on top of these was a roller tray that she could probably reach, at least if she stood. Fan drew the blanket aside and examined her splinted leg, undoing the bandages within the structure as gingerly as she could, noting how he had wound them so she could redo them herself. Once exposed, her leg looked horrid with a multihued bruise of muddy purples and reds covering most of her left thigh, its shape very much like Australia as it curled about her limb. In school they had briefly studied the origins of the continents, and while Australia wasn’t one of them, the teacher had made a point of likening it to B-Mor, this substantial land that had detached from the rest and become a self-sustaining island, and here it was, tattooed on her leg, this sign of what might as well be a thousand miles away.
She probed the bruise with her fingers, pressing until it hurt, surprised to find that it was not as fragile or tender as she feared. When she twisted her leg, the pain was still searing but she could lift it several inches without too much discomfort. Slowly she swung her legs onto the floor and then bent her good leg and leaned forward and up and onto it, attempting to find her balance. She faltered and had to let herself down on the edge of the cot. She tried twice more before finally being able to stand on her good leg alone. When she tested the other, it was okay, until she tried a normal stance and then it hurt too much; she had to lean on one side of the splint to brace herself, hobbling across the room. She reached as high as she could on the shelf and barely grabbed the roller tray, but it hooked a can of paint, which came down with it as well, nearly landing on her foot. The top popped off and glaring yellow paint—the kind used for marking lines in roads—spewed onto the wood floor. Though it was pointless to be careful now, she crouched as much as she could with a splinted leg, holding the tray beneath her as she pulled her underwear to the side. And in a sweet whoosh she let it all go; it seemed she was relieving herself forever as she stared at the shimmering paint thrown out in the pattern of a seal’s flipper, fully extended, racing through the waters, and all at once she was crying again, in what seemed to her an equally ridiculous deluge. She couldn’t stop either flow, as hard as she tried she couldn’t, even when the padlock chocked and the door swung in to reveal Loreen holding an old green plastic beach pail, her fetching eyes shouting murder. Before Fan could take another breath, Loreen stepped forward and struck her across the cheek with the pail, sending her hard to the floor in a clatter, dismantling the splint and upending the tray and splaying Fan in her own warm, odorous water.
You little bitch! Look at what you’ve done! What a goddamned mess!
Fan, however, could not look, being momentarily blinded by the attack. And when her sight returned, all she could see were the woman’s pudgy, unpainted toes poking out from her rubber sandals, these mini-Loreens traveling pendulously to and fro before they struck, too, in the chest and shoulder and now on her arms, with which she was trying to shield her face. Fan had almost given up, not knowing anymore if she was asleep or awake or dead. But then the blows ceased, and Loreen was down on all fours beside her, and she saw Quig, looming high and wraithlike above them, a long white wand in his hand, its red tip two-pronged. He seemed to have stepped right out of a fantastical movie, like he was one of those warlocks but without a special hat.
I told you, he said softly. Be gentle.
Oh, screw you, Loreen rasped through her teeth. Screw you.
He extended the wand and touched her on the back of the neck. She bucked and
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