激情快播

Summer 2014

Aaron calls to say we鈥檙e running out of time, and I know that we鈥檙e going to have to do it all over again, the collecting, the hiding, the waiting to come out of the dark.

鈥淕race,鈥� he says. 鈥淲here are you? Where are you right now?鈥�

He鈥檚 got that warble in his voice, like he鈥檚 just swallowed a kazoo, that and the tone that means business, like in movies when the screen splits and we see the people on both ends of the line, the air traffic controller telling the twelve-year-old girl how to land the plane, or the hero asking the chief which color wire to cut.

鈥淧ublix,鈥� I say. 鈥淚鈥檓 at Publix.鈥�

鈥淧erfect,鈥� Aaron says. 鈥淚 want you to get ten鈥攖wenty鈥攇allons of water, eight rolls of duct tape, five pounds of jerky, and a pear.鈥�

He still calls it duck tape, like the bird. Last time I corrected him, he didn鈥檛 talk to me for two days, so I let it go.

鈥淲hy the pear?鈥� I ask.

鈥淚 like pears,鈥� Aaron says, and it鈥檚 like he鈥檚 saying: Just because the world鈥檚 ending, I can鈥檛 get a pear, for God鈥檚 sake?

Except that, for Aaron, the world is always ending. It鈥檚 the third time this year, and it鈥檚 only July. I鈥檓 thinking last night鈥檚 fireworks set him off, but there has to be more to it. Probably he鈥檚 off his meds. Aaron loses it, and, nine out of ten times, it means he鈥檚 gone off his meds.

Used to be, he鈥檇 warn me. 鈥淚鈥檓 just going to try,鈥� he鈥檇 say. 鈥淛ust for a week or two.鈥�

When I stopped supporting these experiments, he stopped telling me. Now, I have to guess, which isn鈥檛 hard given the things that come out of his mouth. The trick is figuring out how long he鈥檚 been off.

First day, he鈥檒l feel nothing. By the end of the first week, he tends to claim a clarity and empathy he hasn鈥檛 felt in years. 鈥淚 want to hump the world!鈥� he鈥檒l say, pulling me onto the bed.

Then, week two will hit, and like clockwork, or something more precise and calculating than clockwork, Aaron will start in on that year鈥檚 fear.

It wasn鈥檛 always the end of the world. For a while, Aaron was afraid to leave the house. Those weeks were okay. We鈥檇 lie in bed, snuggle, watch TV. One time, we watched Labyrinth three times in a row. By the third viewing, Aaron was sobbing. I shook the pills into his palm and he drank them down.

Then there was the year of the bees. Bumblebee or butterfly, it didn鈥檛 matter. Aaron would see a bug and freak out. When he was a child, a bee sting put him in the hospital for two days. Now, everywhere he goes, there鈥檚 an EpiPen in his pocket. Aaron gets stung, he has less than a minute to plunge the needle into his leg before his throat swells shut. It鈥檚 a fear I respect, a fear that makes sense when you鈥檙e all the time only seconds away from death.

He鈥檚 only been stung the one time, but twice he鈥檚 put himself back in the hospital. 鈥淚 really thought there was a bee,鈥� he鈥檒l say, EpiPen empty in its little tan tube.

鈥淲on鈥檛 be long now,鈥� he鈥檒l say, canning fruit or sharpening the blade of a knife. 鈥淲on鈥檛 be long at all.鈥�

I blame his parents. Not for the depression鈥擨 mean, maybe that鈥檚 their fault. Maybe there鈥檚 something messed up with their genes. I don鈥檛 know. I don鈥檛 know how DNA works. I only know that his folks bought into the whole Y2K thing, and Aaron鈥檚 never been the same since.

Imagine it: You鈥檙e eight years old, all of your friends are partying with their families or up late with other friends at New Year鈥檚 Eve sleepovers, and, instead of watching the ball drop with your parents, you鈥檙e huddled in the basement watching your mom cry. The basement is stocked with two years鈥� worth of water, batteries, and green beans. Upstairs, a TV鈥檚 been left on, and Dick Clark counts down. Downstairs, you shut your eyes and wait for the end of the world.

You could say Aaron鈥檚 been waiting ever since. I should know. I鈥檝e known Aaron most of his life. In kindergarten he pulled my pigtails, and by high school I was letting him pull down my pants. Neither of us were college material, so, after graduation, he got a job at Arby鈥檚 and I got a job down the street at Payless shoes. Sometimes our lunch hours overlap, and we meet at McDonald鈥檚. He smells like old beef and I smell like feet, and we eat our McNuggets and pretend that we鈥檙e better than this. Truth is, we鈥檙e twenty and we live with our parents, but that鈥檚 okay because we have each other, and I鈥檝e come to believe that each other is enough.

Most nights I spend at Aaron鈥檚. His parents call me the daughter they never had, which is sweet but also kind of messed up since they must know I鈥檓 sleeping with their son.

At Publix, I get everything off of Aaron鈥檚 list that will fit in the cart. I have a card from my parents to cover food, and, so long as I keep it under two hundred a month, Dad won鈥檛 yell. Most meals, I pay for myself so I can stock up on weeks Aaron goes a little crazy. His therapist calls this enabling. I call it love. She says I鈥檓 a problem, and I, for one, have agreed to disagree.

At home, I pop the trunk. It鈥檚 got a dozen gallons in it, and I grab the first two. I start up the front steps and almost kick over the jar. This I鈥檓 used to. Every few months, we find one, a mason jar fat with amber, lid collared by a yellow bow鈥攁 sort of thank-you for ignoring the bees.

A while back, the woman next door set up a hive. Generally, the bees stay on her side of the fence, though, from Aaron鈥檚 backyard, you can watch them rise, a fog of tiny helicopters circling the house. Aaron鈥檚 mom called the county, but it turns out there鈥檚 no law against keeping bees.

She petitioned the homeowners association to dub the neighborhood bee-free, but the beekeeper threatened litigation. In the end, the HOA let the lady keep her bees, provided no one got stung, and, in two years, no one has. The women settled their differences, and now we get honey.

Aaron meets me at the door.

鈥淪weet!鈥� he says. He pulls the jar from my hand, leaving me to juggle the gallons.

鈥淭here鈥檚 more in the trunk,鈥� I say.

鈥淭hose can wait,鈥� Aaron says. 鈥淕et the pear.鈥�

I go back to the car, get the pear, and find Aaron in the basement. This is where he lives. The place is spotless, the way it gets his first week off meds. First he cleans everything, then he lets everything go to hell. The clothes he has on are the clothes he wore yesterday, and I wonder how long it鈥檚 been since he slept.

鈥淐ome on, come on,鈥� Aaron says.

The basement is two rooms. One鈥檚 a bedroom. The other鈥檚 been converted to a living-room-slash-kitchen. It鈥檚 all belowground, setup intended for the Y2K end that never came.

Aaron鈥檚 on the bed, honey jar open between his knees. He balances a plate on top of the jar, and I drop the pear onto it. Aaron likes knives, keeps knives all over the house, and now he pulls one from his pocket, a Swiss Army deal, and unfolds a long blade from the handle. He splits the pear, picks the seeds from the middle, and hands me the plate. Then I watch as he lowers the blade past the open mouth and deep into the jar鈥檚 gold, glorious middle.

The knife rises, and it鈥檚 gilded, honey-sheathed. I lift the plate and wait for the drizzle.

Listen: If your honey comes in a bear-shaped bottle, you鈥檝e never had honey, and if you haven鈥檛 had honey, you haven鈥檛 lived. Real honey, honey fresh from the comb, is sweet, yes, but it also tastes like clover and sage, like cinnamon and lemon trees. I can鈥檛 explain it except to say that, before you die, you owe it to yourself to take a taste.

We eat the pears and make love, and, when we鈥檙e done, I run back to the car and unload the gallons, the rolls of tape, the jerky in its fat, five-pound bag.

I make half a dozen trips up and down the stairs, carrying water, and Aaron stocks the gallons in his pantry. What he鈥檚 got is an old wardrobe, converted, crowded with shelves. Together, we cut a hole in the drywall just big enough to tuck the wardrobe in. You can hardly tell it鈥檚 not a real pantry.

When Aaron gets scared, we stock up. When he comes out of it, we eat whatever we stocked up on.

I come down the stairs with the last gallon, and Aaron is crying.

鈥淭here鈥檚 no room,鈥� he cries. The pantry is packed. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no more room!鈥� He screams it, then sobs.

I touch his shoulder and he turns, wild-eyed, like a dog touched at the food bowl.

I hold up the last gallon. 鈥淲e can slide it under the bed,鈥� I say. 鈥淲e can put it anywhere.鈥� I should know better. There鈥檚 no use reasoning with Aaron when he gets this way, and, today, for whatever reason, he鈥檚 decided the only food and water we can keep is what fits on the shelves.

鈥淭ake it away,鈥� he says. 鈥淕ive it to Mom and Dad. They鈥檙e going to need it.鈥�

Early on in his delusions, this was a sticking point for us.

鈥淧eople will want in,鈥� Aaron will say, 鈥渂ut you鈥檝e got to be ready. You have to be prepared to tell them no.鈥�

鈥淓ven our parents?鈥� I鈥檒l ask.

And Aaron, without a trace of sympathy, will say, 鈥淓ven them.鈥�

鈥淥kay,鈥� I鈥檒l say.

It bothers me, I鈥檒l admit, imagining my mother and father wandering the bomb-scarred wasteland, scavenging for food while Aaron and I get fat on beef jerky and canned corn. But, then, the end isn鈥檛 coming, and so my agreeing with Aaron isn鈥檛 the biggest of concessions. Compromising your ethics is one thing. Compromising your hypothetical ethics is another. And so I say, 鈥淥kay.鈥�

That okay, it鈥檚 like enabling鈥攁nother word that, in my mouth, means love.

You want to know why I love Aaron. How, you鈥檙e wondering. How could she love a man who yells, who cries, who makes her carry jugs of water up and down the stairs? But you鈥檙e only seeing Aaron unwell. Aaron at his best is better than you or me, better than anyone I鈥檝e ever known. He鈥檚 gentle. He鈥檚 kind. But those are just words. Here鈥檚 a story:

I鈥檓 twelve, and, one day, this girl, Mandy Templeton, she empties her carton of milk onto my tray and floods my lunch. 鈥淲hat鈥檙e you gonna do,鈥� she says, 鈥渃ry about it?鈥� I stand, and she pushes me. She calls me names.

We鈥檙e at that age where, at lunch, boys sit with boys and girls sit with girls, but Aaron hears this and stands and walks over. He taps Mandy Templeton on the shoulder, and, when she turns, he punches her, hard as he can, right in the mouth. She hits the ground, screaming, spitting blood.

And even though she鈥檚 a girl and Aaron鈥檚 a boy and the rules of chivalry sort of demand things like this not be done, because Aaron鈥檚 so small, always getting picked on and never鈥擨 mean never鈥攕tanding up for himself, and because Mandy鈥檚 known by students and teachers alike for her cruelty, Aaron gets ten days expulsion, and that鈥檚 it.

Mandy鈥檚 teeth never looked right afterward, and no one ever messed with Aaron again.

Here鈥檚 another story:

Junior year, Aaron takes me to prom. We dance. We kiss. That鈥檚 all we鈥檝e ever done. The dance is over, and, instead of driving me home, Aaron surprises me with a hotel room.

We undress and get into bed. Then, just as we鈥檙e about to get started, I say, 鈥淲ait. I can鈥檛. I鈥檓 not ready.鈥� And, Aaron, he smiles. He strokes my cheek. He says, 鈥淪ure, Grace, okay,鈥� and takes me home. No fight, no fuss, not one word meant to make me feel bad.

Most high school guys don鈥檛 work that way, but Aaron鈥檚 always worked that way. And if the trade-off is that, a few weeks a year, he goes cuckoo, then that鈥檚 a trade-off I鈥檓 willing to take.

Aaron鈥檚 therapist calls him a wounded bird, but, I ask you, who wouldn鈥檛 care for a wounded bird? What kind of person sees a bird with a broken wing, cat on the horizon, and walks on by?

And so I buy the water. I tape the windows. I hunker down with Aaron, and, when I can, I get him to take his medication, knowing that, in a few days, it will kick back in and the man I love will come bubbling up from the ocean floor. He鈥檒l break the surface. Exhausted, he鈥檒l rest his head on my shoulder and say that I deserve better, and I鈥檒l tell him to shut up, and I鈥檒l rub his back and he鈥檒l sleep and I鈥檒l watch.

I carry the extra gallon upstairs. It鈥檚 Thursday, our shared day off, but Aaron鈥檚 parents are at work. I wonder whether they鈥檝e noticed the change. Most episodes, they don鈥檛. When it comes to Aaron鈥檚 parents and Aaron鈥檚 illness, check the sand. That鈥檚 where you鈥檒l find their heads.

I head back downstairs, and Aaron鈥檚 still trying to make room for the jug. Finally, he gives up. He pulls the honey jar down from the high shelf, uncaps it, and sticks a finger in. He puts the finger into his mouth. He does this a few more times. He doesn鈥檛 offer me any, and I don鈥檛 ask. Off his meds, Aaron can be thoughtless, but I try not to make him feel bad. Guilt鈥檚 not a motivator when he鈥檚 like this. Guilt only makes things worse.

He fastens the lid and returns the jar to its place on the shelf. He lies down on the bed, and I lie next to him. The sheets are musty, unwashed.

鈥淗ow do you know?鈥� I say. I may as well be asking a toddler how the spaghetti sauce got all over the walls, but I have to try.

鈥淚 can feel it,鈥� Aaron says, voice thin through the pillow. 鈥淚t鈥檚 here.鈥�

鈥淗ow does it happen?鈥� I say.

Aaron is quiet so long, I nudge him just to make sure he hasn鈥檛 smothered himself. When he jumps, I realize I鈥檝e woken him. He throws the pillow across the room. It hits the TV and falls to the floor.

Aaron pulls the remote from his pocket and turns the TV on. According to the news, there鈥檚 been a strike in Pakistan. Something to do with American missiles. Something to do with the threat of nuclear armament. The anchors theorize. Which countries have the bomb? Which don鈥檛? Tune in at ten to find out鈥攖hat sort of thing. It鈥檚 nothing you don鈥檛 see every few days, but it鈥檚 all the evidence Aaron needs.

鈥淚f there鈥檚 a detonation, even a hundred miles away, the fallout alone will keep us underground for ten years,鈥� Aaron says.

That鈥檚 a lot of bottled water, I want to say. Instead, I tell him that it鈥檚 all right, that no bombs are falling, that I鈥檓 here.

I don鈥檛 know where Aaron gets his information. Maybe he makes stuff up. Maybe he鈥檚 trying to scare me, or maybe he believes what he says. Some of it he gets online. I know from his laptop鈥檚 browser history, which is mostly war and death.

鈥淚 love you,鈥� I say.

Aaron changes the channel. More Middle East, more death.

The pill bottle is on the dresser by the bed. I reach it and uncap it. The next part, I have to be careful.

鈥淗ow about some medicine, sweetie,鈥� I say, and Aaron knocks the bottle from my hand.

I鈥檓 on my hands and knees, picking up the little white pills, when Aaron says the country鈥檚 started testing new poisons on its own people. 鈥淭hey drive them out to New Mexico and gas them,鈥� he says.

鈥淚鈥檓 sure that鈥檚 not true,鈥� I say.

The first pill鈥檚 the hardest, but it鈥檚 only the beginning. They鈥檙e antipsychotics, not miracle drugs, and sometimes it鈥檚 a week before they kick in. Even if I can get this one into him, I have a long road ahead of me.

鈥淚t鈥檚 totally true,鈥� Aaron says. 鈥淚 saw footage.鈥�

I let it go. I pick up the last pill.

鈥淚鈥檒l make it worth your while,鈥� I say.

I stand, hands on my hips. Aaron pops the pill.

Do I feel bad? Bad for using my wiles to get a pill into Aaron鈥檚 gut? I do not.

After, I brush my teeth over the kitchen sink. When I move back to the bed, Aaron鈥檚 already asleep.

It鈥檚 almost midnight when he wakes. I鈥檓 watching a TV movie, and Aaron puts a hand on my leg.

鈥淣ot now, sweetie,鈥� I say. I鈥檓 tired. I鈥檓 worried. I turn the TV off.

鈥淔or me?鈥� he says.

I tell him to take another pill and we鈥檒l talk.

He takes the pill and pulls down his pants.

I鈥檓 in no mood, but a deal鈥檚 a deal, and it turns out to take almost no time at all.

鈥淚 love you,鈥� he says, and, from our bed, I hear him move to the pantry, hear the honey jar lid come unscrewed followed by a quiet, occasional slurping.

鈥淲ake me up for the end of the world,鈥� I say, and Aaron says, 鈥凄辞苍鈥檛 worry, I will,鈥� no trace of irony, sarcasm, any of it.

He鈥檒l laugh when I tell him. When he鈥檚 well, we鈥檒l have dinner someplace nice. We鈥檒l celebrate another episode overcome. I鈥檒l repeat the things he said, and he鈥檒l shake his head, embarrassed, but also amazed.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know,鈥� he鈥檒l say. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what gets into me.鈥� And he鈥檒l reach across the table and take my hand and squeeze.

The TV comes on and Aaron turns the volume down low. I feel a hand on the back of my head, and I hope it鈥檚 not the one covered in honey. He smooths my hair, and I think how this is maybe going to be an easy one. In March, Aaron and I spent an afternoon under the bed. In May, he stayed in the basement, lights off, for a week. I鈥檇 leave for work and come home to cups brimming with piss. At the end of the week, it took a day鈥檚 worth of laxatives to empty him out.

In the morning, I鈥檒l call Arby鈥檚. Aaron鈥檚 boss knows the drill and, to date, has been surprisingly accommodating. Aaron has five days paid vacation left for the year, but I鈥檓 hoping to get him back to work in a day, hoping one of these years, by the end of the year, Aaron will have some days left and we鈥檒l go somewhere the way people go places when they鈥檙e young and in love.

鈥淎aron,鈥� I say. 鈥淚 need you to take your medicine.鈥�

鈥淚 will,鈥� he says, but his hand stops smoothing my hair.

鈥淧romise,鈥� I say. 鈥淧romise me that in twelve hours you鈥檒l take another pill.鈥�

鈥淚 promise,鈥� he says.

Here鈥檚 what I know: I know that, one of these times, it鈥檚 not going to be so easy. One of these days, no matter what I do, I won鈥檛 be able to get Aaron back on his meds. What I don鈥檛 know is what comes next. This is my fear, the fear of the unknown.

And, in this way, maybe Aaron and I aren鈥檛 so different鈥攖wo people afraid of things beyond our control. Except that, in the end, I have a pretty good idea whose nightmare is destined to come true.

The mercury鈥檚 rising, ice caps flattening into the sea. We鈥檝e got dams collapsing and power plants blowing sky-high, plus enough bombs to make the earth鈥檚 surface match the surface of the moon.

The end of the world? It could happen. No one鈥檚 denying that.

But it鈥檚 the end of Aaron that scares me.

I wake. I turn to put my arm around Aaron, but all I get is pillow. The TV鈥檚 off, the room dark. It鈥檚 still dark outside. I check under the bed. I check the cabinet below the kitchen sink. I check upstairs, then I go back to bed.

But I can鈥檛 sleep. Aaron doesn鈥檛 leave the basement, not when he鈥檚 like this. This is new, and new is scary, and, after a few minutes, I rise and turn on the lights. I move to his side of the bed. There鈥檚 a sock on his dresser, weirdly out of place. Beneath the sock, I find the pills, chalky, deformed, and I wonder how long each stayed tucked under his tongue before I looked away. This worries me, but not as much as what I see next, which is the honey jar empty, licked clean.

I tell myself no way could he be where I think he is, but, nights like this, I know better than to underestimate Aaron, and I don鈥檛 even bother to tie my shoes.

I鈥檓 up the stairs in seconds, out the door and running through the yard in a T-shirt and panties. My laces strike my ankles like the tongues of snakes. There鈥檚 a half-moon, and it slicks the driveway in a wet, ivory shine. The garage door is up and the lawn mower鈥檚 been pulled out. Gardening tools scatter the driveway like a tornado came and hit just the garage. I run faster, into the neighbor鈥檚 yard.

I鈥檝e never seen her backyard, only the bees that rise from it. The perimeter is a fence of wood planks too high to climb, but an open gate tells me which way Aaron went. I pass through the gate and a floodlight flicks on.

And there, in the lamplight, is Aaron. And there is the hive. It鈥檚 just a white box, a white, wooden box half a coffin in length.

I don鈥檛 see any bees.

No, what I see is Aaron with a rake in his hands. He鈥檚 standing as far back from the box as he can, reaching with the rake in what I can only guess is an attempt to pry open the lid. The rake quivers in his hands and the wide metal fan combs the hive.

Also, he鈥檚 got an EpiPen in each leg. They bob from his thighs like banderillas from the back of a bull.

I don鈥檛 know what a jarful of honey and two shots of adrenaline do to a man, but Aaron doesn鈥檛 look good. He shakes, almost convulsing, back heaving with every breath.

I could call 911. I could run back to the house and pick up the phone, but by then it would be too late.

鈥淎aron,鈥� I say, and he jumps.

I鈥檓 a few yards away, and I take a step closer. I don鈥檛 want to scare him. I don鈥檛 want him making any sudden moves.

鈥淚 wanted to surprise you,鈥� he says.

鈥淚鈥檓 surprised,鈥� I say. 鈥淧lease, sweetie. Come back to bed.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 not tired,鈥� he says.

His arms tremble and the rake scrapes the box. From somewhere, a bee rises and swims, lazy, in the air around us.

鈥淎aron,鈥� I say. 鈥淚 want you to put the rake down. Now.鈥�

Perhaps they鈥檙e sleeping, I think. Perhaps, at night, the bees go to bed and don鈥檛 fly and don鈥檛 sting. God, I want to believe it.

I take another step forward, and Aaron shrieks.

鈥淪top!鈥� he says.

I hold up my hands like a bank teller on the wrong end of a gun.

鈥淚 just want to help you, Aaron,鈥� I say.

Somewhere in the beekeeper鈥檚 house, a light comes on.

鈥淚 ate all the honey,鈥� he says, fresh tears fattening his cheeks.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 care about that.鈥�

鈥淣o,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not fair. You didn鈥檛 get any.鈥�

鈥淚 did,鈥� I say. 鈥淩emember the pear? I had some. I鈥檓 fine. The rest was for you.鈥� I take another step. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 even like honey all that much.鈥�

The rake slaps the hive and rattles the lid.

鈥凄辞苍鈥檛 lie to me. You love honey. I know it.鈥�

A bee lands on the rake, then lifts back into the sky. Another circles Aaron鈥檚 head.

I take another step. I鈥檓 close. If I lunged, I could grab the rake, but I don鈥檛 know about Aaron. He鈥檚 little, and I鈥檓 thinking I could take him down, but I worry what it will mean if I鈥檓 wrong.

A window opens above us and a head pokes out.

鈥淵ou kids crazy?鈥� the woman calls. 鈥淕et away from there! Get away from there right now!鈥�

A hum has started up in the box, and that can鈥檛 be good. It sounds the way a button sounds when it鈥檚 come loose from your shirt in the dryer, only multiplied by, like, a thousand.

鈥淐all 911!鈥� I yell, and the window slams shut.

鈥淎aron,鈥� I say. 鈥淎aron, I want you to put the rake down and come inside.鈥�

He鈥檚 looking right at me, but it鈥檚 like he can鈥檛 hear me, can鈥檛 hear past the grim determination to do the thing he set out to do.

He looks at the hive, and a bee lands on his shoulder.

My own tears are coming now. I鈥檓 no crier, but I can鈥檛 help it. Because it鈥檚 my fault. Because I shouldn鈥檛 have slept except when he slept. Because, finding him missing, I can鈥檛 believe I went back to bed. Those five minutes, I think. In those five minutes, I might have found him, stopped him before he left the garage.

鈥淥nce the bombs fall, there won鈥檛 be any honey,鈥� Aaron says, his voice garbled and faraway-seeming. There are bees in his hair, bees covering the lid of the box, a patina of bees with fat abdomens and bright wings. Their wings shine like diamonds in the security lights, and I give up the hope that Aaron hasn鈥檛 been stung.

When we were kids, our moms took us to play at a park with monkey bars and swings and a slide. On one side of the playground, a red pipe rose like a snorkel from the earth. It connected belowground to another pipe that rose from the other end of the park. Each pipe was fitted with a megaphone the shape and size of a showerhead and perforated by the same tiny, black holes. I鈥檇 stand at one end and Aaron would stand at the other, and, across the playground, we would throw our voices at each other. Our words came out cavernous, like shouts from behind closed doors. We giggled. We practiced cursing. We told dirty jokes. And, one day, Aaron said, 鈥淚 love you.鈥� I laughed, and Aaron said, 鈥淚 do, Grace. I love you.鈥� We were ten years old, and we鈥檝e said it ever since.

鈥淚t鈥檚 for you,鈥� he says now, and his voice arrives like an echo, like it used to when he told me he loved me before either of us knew what loving the other meant or what it would mean.

The first sting is in my side. I see the bee caught in my shirt. It wriggles, trying to get free.

鈥淎ll of the honey,鈥� he says. 鈥淔or you.鈥�

I leap. I knock Aaron to the ground and pry the rake from his hands. I fling it like a javelin across the yard, far from the hive, and I sit on Aaron鈥檚 chest, hands pinning his wrists to the lawn.

A door opens, and a storm trooper steps out. Or that鈥檚 what it looks like, our neighbor dressed in white, some kind of beekeeper鈥檚 suit and what looks like a watering can at her side.

Her face is hidden behind something like a mask made for fencing, but, when she speaks, her words pierce the mask, clear and unfiltered.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what you kids are up to,鈥� she says, 鈥渂ut, for the love of God, please don鈥檛 move.鈥�

They say that, with enough adrenaline, you can do anything. You hear stories of men wrestling torn arms back from alligators and mothers lifting cars off their kids. I鈥檓 on top of Aaron, but I see too late that the weight of my body is nothing compared to what courses through his veins, and I see that I鈥檝e failed him again.

鈥淧lease,鈥� I say, and then I鈥檓 in the air. I鈥檓 flying. I鈥檓 falling. I鈥檓 tumbling, and I hit something, hard. The hive comes apart, the buzz turns to roar, and the moon, like magic, goes out of the sky.

I hear grunting and turn to see Aaron dragging himself toward me on his elbows. He鈥檚 like a soldier passing beneath barbed wire. The woman in the bee suit stands over him, pumping a thin fog from her can into the air.

I feel a sting, then another. My legs are lightning, and, soon, I can鈥檛 even look at Aaron, who鈥檚 no longer crawling, but rolling, a man on fire.

I look up, into the night, into the heart of the pulsing, vibrating ceiling above.

And then the swarm descends, looking, for all the world, like the end of the world.

FROM THE HEAVEN OF ANIMALS BY DAVID JAMES POISSANT. COMPILATION 漏聽2014 BY DAVID JAMES POISSANT. REPRINTED BY PERMISSION OF SIMON & SCHUSTER, INC.