“Here I am,” Micah said.
He was coming through the swinging door—the kitchen was back there, obviously. Without slowing down, he grabbed a pile of bowls and called to Sailor to get the spoons. Frida had stopped looking at Cal, of course. Her eyes didn’t leave her brother, and Cal was nervous she’d fall into an even deeper fog. He led her to the table Micah had set the bowls on and pushed her into a chair that must have once belonged to a 1950s Formica dining set: its seat and back were made of pink vinyl, slit in more than one place, its legs, curved metal. It squeaked with the weight of her.
“I’ll get you food,” Cal said.
Micah nodded. “She needs to eat.”
During the meal, Cal, like Frida, couldn’t look away from Micah. Cal’s mind had accepted that his old friend was alive, but the specific, distinct reality of Micah was almost too much to bear: the snorted laugh that Cal had somehow forgotten, the way he affected a yawn to fill a pause in the conversation, how he held his bowl of soup to his face to slurp its dregs. It was as disquieting as déjà vu; Cal had been here before, but he couldn’t have been.
They were eating bowls of bean soup. Cal’s spoon was made of silver, and with each bite he tasted the bitter metal. Frida had been given a plastic spork, but she was barely eating. The group had fallen silent, and Cal felt, again, the barrage of questions pushing at him from within.
“I don’t understand, Micah,” he said finally. “Didn’t you blow yourself up?”
“Ah,” Fatima said. “No wonder your sister looks so ill.”
“We thought he was dead,” Cal said to her.
She raised an eyebrow. “That was foolish of you.”
Micah held up a hand. “No, it wasn’t.” That yawn again. “We were very, very good.”
“We—as in the Group?” Cal asked.
Peter stood. “I’m clearing these bowls now.” He looked to Fatima, then Sailor. “Help me.”
When they were gone, Micah leaned forward. “California, you’re freaking out my friends.”
“Please call me Cal.”
“Cal. Sorry. I’ll explain everything in time.”
“I think right now would be good.”
Frida bit her lip. She was watching them like they were in a soap opera.
“Frida,” Micah said, turning to her. “I love you. You know that, right?”
She smiled, all at once coming to life.
“Why don’t we go see your room,” Micah said.
The upper floors weren’t as derelict as downstairs, but they hadn’t been remodeled, either. Not professionally, at least.
“We’ve spent some time making things comfortable up here,” Micah said as they headed upstairs. The walls were painted, if a bit sloppily. Cal could make out burn marks on the ceiling from the flames of gas lanterns long ago.
Their room was on the third floor near the end of the hallway. It was a small room, with a small glassless window that was covered with a piece of cheesecloth. The thin fabric had been stapled to the wall.
Their bags were waiting for them on the floor, but they fell slack, as if someone had removed most of the belongings inside.
“Did you take our clothes?” Cal asked Micah.
Micah smiled. “They’re probably just being washed. Don’t freak out.”
“My jeans were in there.”
“You really care that much about jeans?” Micah said. “I wouldn’t have taken you for such a fashionista, Cal. Besides, I said, you’ll get everything back.”
“When?” He was about to say more, when Frida grabbed his hand and nodded at the room, as if to offer it to him. But he couldn’t wear a bedroom.
There was a collapsible camping table made of nylon and metal, and a bed with a wrought-iron headboard. Cal couldn’t tell if the sharp, itchy mattress of hay was from the nineteenth century or if it was merely supposed to appear that way.
“You’ll get used to it,” Micah said, when Cal sat down on it.
“People always say, ‘You’ll get used to it,’” Frida said suddenly. “It’s not really true.”
Micah grinned. “That’s just because you’re spoiled.”
Frida laughed.
Cal turned to Micah. “You’re the one with clean fingernails.”
They both looked at him like he’d gone too far.
“No need to get sensitive,” Micah said. “I was only poking fun.”
“So was I,” Cal said.
“Boys,” Frida said. But then she was quiet again, and Cal couldn’t help but be annoyed.
“Is this room usually empty?” he asked. “Is that why there’s nothing in it?”
Micah shook his head. “We’re not too big on personal effects here.” He explained that this was Fatima’s room.
“Where will she sleep?” Cal asked.
“Probably with Peter.”
“Is Peter her—husband?”
Micah burst out laughing. “Can’t be married without a government, California. If you’re asking if they’re a couple, then, yeah. I guess. I don’t ask. But they haven’t jumped over a broom or anything.” He squinted at Cal. “Did you guys? Are you?”
Frida nodded.