a-Hunting (Act III)

“Puertas a mi izquierda,” says the recording. “Lloyd Center, Northeast Eleventh Avenue. Doors to my left.” Jo starts awake, nearly dropping the long bundle wrapped in red. Ysabel’s shaking her shoulder. “Our stop,” she says. Her reflection hangs in the dark window like a ghost, the green of her new dress shining over a dimly lit office lobby across the street.

Outside, Jo in her army jacket and her new grey dress, red bundle under one arm, walks to the end of the platform, looking out over the parking lot. It’s almost empty, drowned in a dulling haze of streetlight. Past it a long barn of a movie theater lit up with neon. Across the street another empty lot spreads before the anonymous prow of a shopping mall. A bell rings. With a rising, grinding hum the train pulls away, clank-chunking over a rail junction. “Where is everybody?” says Jo.

“Inside,” says Ysabel.

“Inside.” Jo points across the street. “In the mall.” She shakes her head. “Of course they’re in the mall.”

“Give me your sword,” says Ysabel.

“It’s really fucking late,” says Jo, holding out the bundle.

“The witching hour,” says Ysabel. She’s unwinding the long red scarf from the short épée in its black sheath. “Hold still.” She stoops on one knee there before Jo, shaking the belt loose. Reaches up, wrapping it around Jo’s hips. “Hold still,” she says, buckling it. “We should have gotten you some shoes.”