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1. Early Spring, Y1
"Well, Mochi," Zane sighs, pushing open the door of the dilapidated cottage, "Home sweet home."
The enormous orange cat in her arms lays his ears flat and sneezes before climbing up her shoulders and behind her neck, beneath her long black ponytail.
"Yeah," she sighs, "Can't say I blame you, buddy."
The cottage is old - older than she is by far, and she'd turned 30 late last month. It has been abandoned for the past five years, and the property has been growing wild for longer than that. Her father had been the last person to set foot in the cottage; he'd come to Pelican Town a few months after Grandpa's death to pack up the place, because Zane had been too busy at work to take care of it.
At least I went to see him before he died, she thinks, pulling the neck of her black t-shirt up over her nose as she steps inside. Even if he was in the hospital, I saw him and he knew me.
The floorboards creak under her weight and dust puffs up around her boots. As she feels for the light switch, her fingers sweep through thick cobwebs; she shudders, wiping her hand on the seat of her jeans as the weak overhead light flickers to life.
The scene is bleak. An old, rough-hewn wooden bed frame sits in the far corner of the room, its headboard laced with spiderwebs and covered in dust. A plastic cover protects the mattress. An ancient stove sits in the center of the far wall; it's cleaner than the rest of the surfaces, and there are clear streaks on the dirty wooden floor where the utility worker had pulled it back from the wall to reconnect the gas. Stacks of old ceramic dishware cover the chipped Formica counters, layered in dust and dead insects. The sink sports a ring of rust and hard water stains, and the faucet drips. Near the stove is a small wooden table with a single wooden chair, both layered in yet more dust and cobwebs. Across from the bed is a television set so old it must weigh over a hundred pounds.
The bathroom is the only other accessible area. Grandpa hadn't used the rest of the cottage during the last year of his life, and by the time Zane's father arrived to tend to Grandpa's few belongings, the other rooms had fallen into even worse disrepair. A leaking roof had given way in a couple places, damaging the floor until it was too weak to walk across.
Zane has a vague recollection of telling her father to just board up the doorways, promising she'd call someone to deal with the damage.
She never had, but she had left out that bit of information when she'd told her dad she planned to move into Grandpa's cottage. As far as he knew, she was moving into a cozy new home that had been cleaned, repaired, and brought as far into the 21st century as possible in an out-of-the-way area like Pelican Town.
Zane sighs. Mochi leaps from her shoulders and huddles behind the giant TV.
"I know, I'm sorry," she murmurs, moving further into the cottage. She drops her duffel bag on the plastic-covered mattress without thinking; a grey cloud of dust erupts into the air, stinging her eyes, and she sneezes three times in rapid succession despite still having her shirt over her nose.
Frustrated and annoyed, Zane swears as she drops her shirt and shoves the straggling hair out of her face, turning toward the window next to the bed frame. She tries to push it up, but it's stuck fast; even turning the lock doesn't help.
"Oh, fucking Yoba," she snarls, digging her fingertips as far between the window and the windowsill as possible; she pulls with all her strength.
The window flies upward, taking two of her fingernails with it and shattering as it slams home, spraying her with broken glass.
"Shit!"
Zane flinches away, face and fingertips stinging; she tries to dust off her face and only draws blood. With an ugly cry, she whirls away from the window to face the door, flinging her long black ponytail behind her back like a heavy-metal headbanger. She'd intended to run to her car for the first aid kit, but she only scares the hell out of the old man in the doorway who recoils as if he half expects her to attack him.
"Is this...is this a bad time, Miss Zane?" he asks, tentative.
Oh, yes, she thinks, realizing how this must seem and struggling to wipe the sneer off her face. Yes it is, because my whole goddamn life is a bad time.
Zane closes her eyes and takes a deep breath that does little to steady her nerves.
"No, Mayor Lewis." She clutches her torn fingernails in her opposite hand. "I'm just...trying to get settled. Come in."
Lewis nods as if he does not quite believe her. As he steps inside, a forty-something woman with red hair and broad shoulders follows him. She glances at Zane and tilts her head in bewilderment, her eyes drifting from the thigh-length ponytail to the multiple piercings to her tattooed arms and chest.
Zane sighs; Lewis had looked at her like this weeks ago, when she first came to sign papers.
"No, I don't look like a farmer," she says. "I'm Zane. And you are?"
She had tried to be polite, but the voice that comes out of her mouth still sounds hostile and defensive.
"Oh! I'm sorry, that was...that was rude of me." The woman looks flustered, tearing her eyes away from Zane's unorthodox appearance and looking her in the face. "Zane, I apologize. My name's Robin, I'm the carpenter here in Pelican Town. I came along with Lewis to welcome you and I've done a terrible job of it, haven't I? I promise we aren't a judgmental bunch."
I doubt that, Zane thinks, but she tries hard to keep her skepticism out of her reply; Robin's embarrassment seems genuine.
"It's all right. I really don't look like a farmer." She tries for a smile and wonders if it looks like a grimace. "You two startled me, that's all. I was trying to air out the room. You can see how well that went."
"I'll clean that up for you," Robin says, and her voice brooks no argument. "Is there anything you can put on that cut...? You're bleeding quite a bit."
"There's a first aid kit in my car." Zane lets go of her torn fingernails and winces, reaching into her jeans pocket with her uninjured hand for her keys. "Mayor Lewis, I'll be right back...er, sorry I don't have anywhere clean for you to...do anything. I'll bring some paper towels in..."
Embarrassed and exhausted, Zane hurries out of her own home and toward her beaten-up Jeep. She bumps her hurt fingers seven times in locating her first aid kit and ruins three bandages before she gets her bleeding nail beds covered. The liquid bandage she uses to cover the cut near her upper lip burns so badly that it brings tears to her eyes.
Is this a sign? She thinks, leaning her forehead against the steering wheel as she chokes back the sob that wants to tear its way out of her throat. Do I just...not belong here?
After a few minutes, Zane gets ahold of herself. She reaches into the back seat of the Jeep and grabs the half-empty roll of paper towels she keeps for drink spills and other messes, and heads back into the house.
Robin stands near the window, hammer in hand, nails sticking out of her mouth. A toolbox sits by her feet, and she had swept the broken glass into a neat little pile with an ancient, ragged broom that must have come from the narrow cabinet built into the wall near the counter. She has nailed three sturdy boards into the window frame; two more lie stacked on the sill.
"This should keep the bugs out, at least," Robin says, and her smile is kind despite the nails between her lips. "When you're ready to fix this place up, keep me in mind."
"Robin's got the best prices of anyone you'll find," Mayor Lewis says, with a touch of pride. "And she does better work than any big-city contractor."
"That's good to know. Thank you, Mrs. Robin, I'll call you." Zane hears her calm, customer service voice creeping in and lets it, despite the foul taste it leaves in her mouth. "Here, Mayor Lewis, let me clean up this table..."
Half an hour passes. Zane signs her name a dozen different times, listens to Lewis's explanation of her property lines, assures Robin that she'll consider selling her the timber that's grown up over the years, nods and smiles, pleads exhaustion to Robin's dinner invitation, nods and smiles more, and finally waves goodbye as Robin and Lewis hop into Lewis's ancient pickup and drive back toward town.
Zane heaves a sigh; her shoulders slump, and she leans against the porch railing, staring out across the overgrown land that has belonged to her for the past five years.
"What am I doing?" she mumbles, going to her Jeep to retrieve Mochi's litter box, food, and dishes. "What the hell am I doing?"
Nothing answers her but the crickets. Zane closes the cottage door on the encroaching darkness, sealing herself into the dusty room.
Mochi twines around her legs and meows. On autopilot, aware that she's postponing a breakdown, Zane cleans up a corner of the room, gives Mochi his dinner, fills his water bowl, and sets up his litter box as far in the opposite direction as possible.
For the next hour, she uses up her paper towels cleaning dust and cobwebs off the bedframe and the plastic mattress cover. To her relief, there are no live spiders.
By the time she gets around to stripping the cover off the mattress, her head is throbbing. She sneezes as she folds it up and stumbles against the counter, steadying herself as her vision swims; a faint, jagged rainbow blooms at the periphery of her vision, and Zane cries silently, tears streaming down her cheeks as she folds the plastic and stuffs it into the narrow broom cabinet.
Zane brushes her teeth, washes her face, and reapplies a layer of liquid bandage to the tiny cut above her lip. When she bends down to untie her boots, the first bolt of pain lances into her left eye.
I need to eat, she thinks, pulling a bag of Pop-Tarts from her duffel bag. Can't take those meds on an empty stomach.
She opens the shiny foil pouch, inhales the overwhelming odor of artificial strawberry flavoring, and throws up in her mouth.
Fuck.
Zane tries to hurry to the bathroom and can't; her head throbs with every quick movement. She walks there instead, her eyes half-closed, feeling her way along the wall. She kneels down in front of the toilet like an acolyte at an altar and opens her mouth, gagging again. Within minutes she's thrown up everything she'd eaten over the course of the long, long day.
Miserable, zombielike, Zane forces herself to brush her teeth again before grabbing two orange plastic pill bottles out of the depths of her duffel bag. She pulls one pill out of each, holding them in her palm, but spends far too much time staring at the label of one bottle, her eyes drifting in and out of focus.
At length another staggering pain arrows through her left eye and she tosses the two pills into her mouth, chasing them down with a handful of water from the faucet. With that done, she removes her bra from underneath her shirt and pulls a green and black knitted throw blanket out of her bag. Wrapping it around herself like a shawl, she turns off the painful overhead light, silences her phone, and crawls onto the bare mattress.
I don't belong here.
She clutches the blanket tighter around herself; the last thing she wants is to cry while she has a migraine, but it happens anyway, and the heaving, choking sobs are caused as much by pain as despair.
She cries for what seems like an eternity, until Mochi crawls underneath the blanket and into her arms, nuzzling beneath her chin and purring like a small, furry engine. His presence is comforting, and not long afterward the meds kick in, tamping the pain down to a semi-manageable level and making her feel distant and drowsy.
I'd rather be here, she thinks; it's her last sober thought before the drugged sleep drags her under for the next fourteen hours. Even if I don't belong, even if I'm afraid and uncomfortable, even if I don't know what's going to happen, I'd rather be here. Because nothing is worse than working for Joja.
2. Three Weeks Later
Zane slides onto a barstool in the saloon's corner, praying that the expression on her face will be enough to keep any of the well-meaning townsfolk from speaking to her. It's been such a long day, and the only reason she's risking human interaction is because she needs to eat something that isn't pre-packaged junk food if she wants to survive another day of clearing her land.
"Hey Zane! It's nice to see you in town! What can I get for you?" Emily beams at her from behind the bar, drying a glass with the towel looped onto her little black apron.
This single interaction, as kind and well-intentioned as it is, comes close to making Zane turn around and walk out without a word. She has never been this tired in her entire life, and the idea of having to communicate her desires to another human being with actual verbal words is almost more than she can process.
"Beer," she manages at length, "And food. Whatever the special is for the night."
Emily nods, but she's no longer smiling; instead she gazes at Zane in that quiet, contemplative way that seems to be typical of her, and Zane shifts on her barstool, trying to decide whether Emily is staring at her or staring into space. She's well aware of how out of place she appears in this quaint, small-town saloon, but she's more self-conscious about the evidence of the day's work: her sunburned face, shoulders, and arms, the twigs and leaves tangled in her long, straggling ponytail, and - most telling of all - the bandages on her fingers and the gauze wrapped around the palms of her hands.
The state of her hands embarrasses her more than anything. It seems like a badge of ineptitude, glaring evidence that she doesn't know what she's doing, that she's too soft for the life she's chosen. Zane had never swung an axe in her life until three weeks ago, but she's spent every day since chopping down half-grown trees with a single-minded fervor that - in retrospect - borders on dangerous.
"Um. Please?" Zane adds at length, struggling to sound less hostile, hoping to snap Emily out of her reverie.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Don't mind me!" Emily gives her another bright smile. "I was just thinking...well. Never mind that, you're hungry! A beer and one special, coming right up - sure, Gus, one second!"
Emily turns toward the taps and fills a frosted glass with beer; Zane can't quite read the label.
"This one is a local favorite," Emily says, placing the glass on a small square napkin. "I'll get your order in right away - coming, Gus!"
Emily hurries away, and Zane heaves a sigh of relief. She picks up the glass and smells the brew, curious what kind of beer the citizens of Pelican Town prefer, and wrinkles her nose.
It's been a while since she drank beer - she prefers wine, which is exactly why she hadn't ordered it. Still, she's dated enough craft beer snobs to learn the basics. What Emily has given her smells like some kind of malt, and a tiny sip confirms it.
Shuddering, Zane pushes the glass a few inches away, toward the wall. As she waits for Emily to come back with what she really wants - food - a movement near the door catches her eye and she turns her head.
The guy who walks in looks somewhat familiar - she's seen him in town once or twice, but he looks about as friendly as she feels, and when she catches sight of the smiling J-logo on his ragged hoodie, she can understand why.
She's more than willing to leave him alone, even when he crosses behind her back to stand in the corner near the fireplace. Her skin crawls at his proximity, but she does her best to ignore it; he'd walked to the spot with the absentminded purpose of someone acting from habit, so the corner must be 'his.'
Her stomach growls; her vision blurs, and Zane winces as she remembers she hasn't eaten since six o'clock that morning - almost twelve hours ago.
And she can't even remember what she'd eaten.
I'm gonna wind up killing myself, she thinks, shaking her head to clear her mind. I can't keep doing this.
"...gonna take that as a no," someone says, and Zane's vision clears just in time to see the guy in the Joja hoodie take her beer.
"Hey," she says, turning on her stool, "Wait a second, that's m-mine..."
A rainbow blooms at the edge of her vision. Zane trails off, swearing under her breath.
"What's your problem?" The guy in the hoodie snaps. "I asked if it was yours and you shook your head."
"You did?" Zane rubs her temples. "I didn't hear you..."
He rolls his eyes, mumbling under his breath as he sets the glass back on the counter and waves at someone behind the bar.
More people have crowded in, and the saloon is a little louder than it had been earlier. Part of Emily's voice gets lost in the din of conversation and jukebox music.
"Be...a second...-ane!"
"No rush," Zane says; the guy in the Joja hoodie speaks at the same time, except he says, "S'fine, Em."
The two of them glance at each other, frowning. Zane sees herself in him, in the shadows underneath his eyes and the exhausted slope of his shoulders, and her expression softens.
"What's your name?" she asks, doing her best to ignore the rainbow that's obscuring her vision.
The guy scowls and looks away, leaning against the bar.
"Why are you still talking to me?" he asks, deadpan. "I don't know you."
Zane cocks an eyebrow, torn between begrudging admiration and bristling irritation. On one hand, she can't help but wish she had the confidence to answer unwanted questions with such blatant rudeness; on the other, she's been playing lumberjack for twelve hours and she's in no mood for anyone's attitude.
"Wow," she says at length. "And I thought everyone in this quaint little town was so friendly."
"You thought wrong," he retorts, still refusing to look at her. "Like I said, I don't know you."
"I just moved here," Zane says, but the guy cuts her off before she can say anything else.
"Just because I don't know you doesn't mean I want to." He takes the glass Emily sets in front of him and turns away. "Leave me alone."
Zane is on the verge of saying something downright ugly when she sees the Joja logo on his hoodie again; that stupid fucking smiling J-logo that she had stared at every day of her life for the past seven years.
"You work for Joja?" she asks, already knowing the answer.
It may be a trick of the light, but he seems to flinch. "Why the hell do you think I'm in here drinking?"
Zane's lips twitch. "No wonder you're being such a dick."
She turns away before she can see his reaction, accepting a big plate of spaghetti from Emily and praying it will get rid of her impending migraine before it strikes.
"Don't mind him," Emily says softly, handing her a napkin wrapped around a set of silverware. "Shane's always grumpy."
Shane - the guy in the Joja hoodie - grunts, but says nothing.
Zane tilts her head; after a moment she turns to look at Shane, realizing what had happened a few minutes before.
"Your name is Shane?" she asks.
He scowls, shooting Emily a dark look over Zane's shoulder.
"Yeah," he mutters.
"Really?"
He glares at her. "The hell do you mean, 'really'?"
"My name is Zane," she says. "That's why we both thought Emily was talking to us."
For a moment the dark, scowling mask fades from Shane's stubbled face; his eyes widen, and Zane notes the color of them: green, a darker and richer shade than hers.
Then the scowl returns, and Shane heaves a sigh.
"That's gonna get old real quick," he mumbles, and takes a sip of his drink.
Zane can think of nothing to say to that; the rainbow aura has grown to where it covers part of Shane's face. Instead of replying, she only nods and turns away, asking Emily for a glass of water before digging into her plate of spaghetti.