Now Is Not the Time to Panic

by Kevin Wilson

“The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers,” she said, her voice rising in pitch, and I froze. I nearly dropped the phone. And together, in harmony, we both completed the phrase, “We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for

But I was sixteen. I lived inside of myself way more than I lived inside of this town.

“I want to be an artist,” he told me, like we were both admitting that we weren’t human. We didn’t understand how normal this was, to be young, to believe that you were destined to make beautiful things.

across the dresser and fell onto the floor. “Maybe,” he said gently, like trying to talk someone off the edge of a cliff, “we could think of something else to do.” Everything he said, no matter how innocuous, sounded like he wanted to make out with me. I felt like maybe my anxiety around people was because I’d never kissed anyone before, and that if I just did it, I’d calm down a little, stop being so strange. But I was just too much of a prude, I guess.

The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us.

“Now is not the time to panic, but, also, there seem to be dark forces at play, and I will do everything in my power as an upholder of justice to root them out and send them as far from Coalfield as is humanly possible.”

Every single thing that you loved became a source of both intense obsession and possible shame. Everything was a secret.

“Here’s the thing, sweetie. If you love something, you can’t think too much about what went into making it or the circumstances around it. You just have to, I don’t know, love the thing as it is. And then it’s just for you, right?”

But I also think it’s not so bad if you never quite feel right in this world. It’s still worth hanging around. You just have to look harder to find the things you love.”