How High We Go in the Dark

by Sequoia Nagamatsu

I’m gazing at the photo of Ayano (taken during our honeymoon), listening to her sing. And then a few seconds of static, the male British voice saying good morning, followed by a techno club beat. Hollywood stumbles in circles. A banner ad on the wall tells us to cherish Ayano’s memory by enjoying life via a buffet at the food court in tower 2. “Keep playing,” I tell Aki. I light a stick of incense. I squeeze his shoulders and wipe a tear from his cheek. I pick Hollywood up off the floor and his legs tread the air. Hollywood tells us it’ll be cloudy with a chance of rain. He tells us that plague deaths are at an all-time low. I imagine part of my wife’s spirit floating inside this tiny plastic body, wanting to connect us, waiting patiently for its turn.