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see that things don’t add up and you just stop caring. You tune out. Look away. Stare at the wall. Pretend that the car accident never happened. That your family was never in danger, that it was all just a dream. That the man who saved them—and by proxy, you —is nobody special, even though you’ve seen him wield power over others, a seductive sway that can’t be chalked up to a smooth chest and a dab of Drakkar Noir under the ears. Most of all, pretend that not seeing your family is your decision, not some proclamation from on-high, some supernatural law whose contravention brings down some serious and inexplicable shit.
    Cason leans forward, fists finding rare real estate on the counter.
    Face once handsome, now tired. Old scars and contusions rising to the surface like sunken wrecks beneath a shrinking sea.
    He used to stand like this before a fight. Bobbing. Ducking. Throwing fake punches like Tundu did at the table. Give himself a little pep talk.
    And that’s what he does now.
    “You’re going to get them back,” he says. “You love them. They love you. Something is in your way and you’re going to find that obstacle and you’re going to remove it. If it’s got a pulse, you’ll wring the life out of it until it’s gone. And if it’s something worse...” His mind flashes back to last night. A woman exuding beauty the way a broken reactor bleeds radiation. A lunatic with wings. A monstrous driver—oh, also with wings.
    Was any of that real?
    Maybe it wasn’t.
    Of course, if that wasn’t real—well, soon as he starts picking those paint chips off the wall, the whole image starts to flake away. And behind it lies a troubling tableau—if she wasn’t real, if E. Rose (Eros?) wasn’t real, then that means his family hates him just to hate him, wants him dead because of something he did; and that can’t be right.
    Because all he did was want them to still be alive.
    And now he wants to be with them again.
    Cason towels off one last time, resolving to once more plow the fallow field that is his body—tighten and toughen and strengthen. If there’s a fight ahead, then he’d better be ready to throw a few punches and take twice as many in return.
     
     
    O UTSIDE IN THE living room, Abasi’s got one long arm extended to the ceiling. Afrika is jumping for it, but in this game she’s destined to be the loser.
    That’s when Cason sees what he’s holding.
    A big red apple. The stem as black as the Devil’s umbilical stump.
    Suddenly there’s a woman there wearing a nightgown and shaking an old clam-shell cell phone at the two children, her hair wild and frizzy.
    “Hey, you kids are too damn loud.” She’s got Tundu’s accent. Sister. Wife. Cason doesn’t even know. “Gimme that.”
    She reaches for the apple, but Abasi plays keepaway with her, too, ducking her hand and his cousin’s hand like he’s got no bones at all—just bending and twisting out of their reach and darting suddenly to the other side of the small living room.
    “Mom!” Afrika yells. “I want the apple!”
    “That’s actually mine—” Cason tries, but his voice is lost underneath the little girl’s sudden shriek. Abasi just laughs and goes to take a big bite of the fat fruit.
    Cason has no idea what that’ll do. All he knows is, the apple is more than an apple. It’s proof that last night happened. It’s—
    Well, it’s goddamn magic, is what it is.
    Cason races to grab the apple out of the boy’s hand, but Tundu is there first, appearing like Batman to save the day.
    “That’s not yours, little man,” Tundu says, swiping the fruit and flipping it quick to Cason. “That’s his . What I tell you? You don’t take people’s things. You do that again I’ll slap your butt so hard it’ll be white. You hear me?”
    Abasi pouts and runs into the kitchen. Afrika hurries after him and her mother follows, pressing the phone to her ear.
    As she passes, Cason tries to introduce himself but it’s to no avail—she