Anima meant “soul,” or “animating principle.” According to the psychologist Carl Jung, Anima also implied the unseen individual, the true inner self.
Penny didn’t have a ton of experience playing online role-playing games like the one in the story. She knew, though, that Overwatch and World of Warcraft were huge in Korea—PC games that were played so competitively and obsessively that tournaments filled arenas and people went into rehab for addiction.
Regardless, what was true of all games was that there had to be a task, a pursuit. So she wrote down “quest” in her favorite ultra-fine rollerball black pen.
God, she loved that word.
She underlined “quest.” Such a euphonic word. Quessssst.
Oooh, “odyssey” was a good word too, but she’d already underlined quest.
She added a question mark.
Then she took out another note card and simply wrote: How does the hero get what they want?
J.A.’s words nagged at her.
First, Penny had to set up the rules. The main part of the game was that the hero or the player character had to raise a baby, or the Anima. The Anima was the trusted sidekick and you could dress them up and give them weapons but most importantly you kept them safe from harm. The mom, Mrs. Kim, played as a Gunslinger. A ruthless sharpshooting outlaw. There were adventures and sieges and even a dragon slaying. The dragon battle was a real barn burner and at the very last second before all was lost, the Anima would make its greatest sacrifice—its life—to save the Gunslinger and beat their mortal enemy. That was the deal since time immemorial.
In Penny’s version, the baby changed its mind because it could.
That an Anima even had a mind to change was a miracle.
And the cost of the miracle had been the couple’s real-life baby. A digital tit for tat.
Okay, focus. So who’s the hero, the Anima or the mother? It was the Anima since she changes the most. But why?
Penny thought about the event that starts a story—the inciting incident—that they’d talked about in class. It’s the Big Bang (well, unless you’re a religious creationist type). It’s like how Katniss’s sister is picked for the Hunger Games but Katniss steps in for her. Or how Nitro exploding kills six hundred people, which leads to the Superhuman Registration Act that causes civil war in the Marvel U. The Anima needed a Eureka moment, a turning point.
“I’ll miss you.” The Gunslinger bent down on one knee and kissed the Anima on the cheek.
“I’ll miss you,” parroted the Anima back, smiling sweetly. The dutiful baby knew it was best to repeat whatever Mother said.
The Gunslinger chuckled, gathering up the Anima in her arms. “Do you know what that means, my sweet daughter? To miss?” The Gunslinger was feared in four kingdoms for her unflinching kills, but in private she spoiled her child.
The Anima shook her head.
“It means I’ll think about you all the time and wish you were close even when I’m not here.”
“I’ll miss you,” said the Anima again as she watched Mother go.
What did it mean, “here”? The Anima was always “here.” Where was not “here”? That there was such a thing as “un-here” bore a hole in the Anima’s head. She hated when Mother was in the “un-here.”
On the next evening, as Mother departed, the Anima followed her into the woods. It was forbidden to leave the Atrium without the Gunslinger’s say-so, but the Anima had to know. It was a moonless night and the Anima was afraid of the dark shapes and Mother’s wrath if she were caught, when suddenly, in the pitch black, the Anima heard voices. Loud ones from the sky. With a flash of white light the heavens opened and high above even the treetops, higher than all five peaks of Mount Meru, the Anima saw a face as big as the sun. Mother. This was the “un-here” that Mother went when she missed the Anima.
This spark of curiosity and the pursuit of answers was the Anima’s quest. This altered her fate and intertwined it with the Mother’s real-life child beyond the computer. The Anima could see the “un-here” from the PC camera and speakers. And the more she realized about herself, the more she became curious about the world she inhabited. This was enlightenment. Sentience. This was life.
Penny took notes, read everything over, and wondered if any of it constituted writing. Somehow it was seven forty. Twenty minutes to get to class, and Sam had texted good morning an hour ago. Maybe she should scribble out a story about an irresistible computer algorithm that haunted her phone and made her fall in love with it until she lost her mind and climbed into the shower hugging a still-plugged-in blow-dryer. Now, that would be believable.
SAM.
Sam heard the garbage trucks. Then the birds. His body knew it was morning before the light changed and the room warmed. It used to be that he’d be getting home with the trash collectors and self-satisfied joggers. Sam would marvel at the joggers—humans with whole separate wardrobes dedicated to particular tasks—people who owned camping equipment and tennis rackets. People for whom having kids made some kind of sense.
Sam couldn’t tell if he’d slept. For weeks when he first stopped drinking he’d had terrible nightmares. Vivid dreams of fistfights with his father or Lorraine’s funeral—Psych 101 stuff. Then it flipped for no reason and he slept like the dead. Dreamless slumber he had to wrench himself from in the morning, pillow damp with drool, deep creases on his face where his skin had folded and he hadn’t moved. Now insomnia popped up once in a while to mix it up.
Good morning! he typed into his phone.
It was the first thing he did now.
Sam showered. The hot water coursed over his body, poaching his skin. Seeing Lorraine had been discouraging. Sad. He felt emotionally hungover from the night before. As if he’d clenched all his muscles the entire time.
He missed his friends sometimes. Gunner and Gash were entertaining, but without booze and bars, he knew they’d have nothing to talk about.
Sam towel-dried his hair and shook it out. At the top of the summer, Gunner’s ex, April, came by to give him a cut. She’d come alone, which was awkward enough, and when they set up on the back porch, her hands lingered on the back of his neck, suggesting she had something else in mind. Sam couldn’t bear it. He sent her away with a coffee cake with promises to keep in touch, and when she never came back he was relieved.
His phone buzzed.
Tacos y pelicula?
Shit, Jude.
They’d planned on dinner tonight. Well, dinner and a movie. Sam had made the suggestion. Al Pastor tacos at the good taco spot, not the ruined shitty philanderer taco spot, followed by a late-night screening of Gremlins 2 at Alamo Drafthouse, where they’d have crème br?lées.
Whenever Jude texted him, Sam unfailingly thought, Shit, Jude, despite his affection for her. Jude was a sweet kid. It’s just that he already saw her most mornings when she picked up coffee before class, and that was plenty.
Sam made himself an espresso. Would it kill him to have dinner with her?
Probably.
He exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, cringed, and typed.
I’m so sorry J
Have to work
He pictured Jude staring at her screen and hating him.
He typed again.
Next week?
Uuuuuugh. Why did he do that?
Penny texted him back.
Good morning!
Did you know da vinci didn’t sleep Only naps
30 mins/4 hrs
He knew when she texted in bursts that she had something else going on. He checked the time. It was 8:08. She was either in her writing class or running late to it. Sam loved that he could talk to her all day without worrying about seeing her.
Historically, communicating with girls wasn’t hard. When they show interest, you show interest back by asking a ton of questions. Penny was receptive to questions, though her responses were rarely coy or suggestive. Plus, she made zero effort to hang out. She seemed somehow immune to the mechanics of flirting. Sam wondered if she found him attractive.
EMERGENCY PENNY
Yesterday 4:37 PM
Dogs or cats?
It cracked him up that Penny was in his phone as “Emergency Penny” since none of her texts constituted an emergency.