Chapter One
For three years we’ve had earthquakes, volcanoes, plagues, looting, violence of every kind, starvation and death, then death again. Sash is a little pissy about it.
“Women,” he whispers, “are getting their hearts cut out.”
Our thirteen-year-old chooses this moment to return from one of her frequent visits to see Reno, the only other girl in our building who’s anywhere close to Sasha’s age. She slams into the condo, then more or less snarls, “This is the most fucked up end of the world, ever!” A scrawny, squirming animal in the crook of our daughter’s arm claws her backpack strap. It looks too tiny to claw deep into her skin. I hope.
My mother, forever taking in her designer clothes to accommodate her ever-diminishing size, stands in front of the giant, gilt mirror that’s in her ostentatious hallway. You can always count on her for etiquette tips. “Sophia dear, will you remind Sasha we don’t say the F-word in my home.”
My focus is still on the creature in Sash’s arms. It’s a bizarre being, bald save for a tuft of orange hair running from its forehead down its back. Sash bangs her backpack on the floor and kicks the front door shut. After that, she ignores all of us, including our two pit bull puppies, who cock their heads at her as they try to smell the butt of the kittenish thing they assume she’s brought them. The animal makes pathetic petite bleating noises.