The Paper Palace

by Miranda Cowley Heller

Out on the pond the water is absolutely still. A fish jumps and, in its wake, leaves a trail of concentric circles. I watch them bleed out around the edges until they are reabsorbed, as if nothing ever happened.

and with nothing else to do to pass the days, I read (and care about) every single line. I am forced by circumstance to at last become my best self—that

Then I dive away from him, swim for the beach, for my clothes, for what feels like my soul.

I cover my ears, pull my blanket over my head so I won’t hear her pleading. She sounds so pitiful—panicked, desperate. Maybe this is what it sounds like when a rabbit screams.

“I love Gina. But I carry you in my bloodstream. This isn’t a choice.”

I am safe. I just can’t ever fall asleep.

I have never seen Jonas look away from anything, never seen his body blanch. And I know it is because I have tethered him—taken away the whitetail dart, wild green-leaf spring of his marrow: forced him to collude, to carry my lie.

precipice of memory, wanting so desperately to fall into it, knowing I can’t. Jonas is animal, Peter is mineral. And I need a rock.