A knock on his door wakes him up. The water in the tub is cold, and he doesn’t want to leave it. After another knock, he drags himself out and opens the door.
It’s Petra.
“I’ve got to get to my kids, but you should get going. It’s early, and if you leave now, you’ll be able to get everything done.”
“Thanks, Petra. Hey, how do I get rid of the Henry smell in here? That old skin still smells like him.”
After a moment, Petra wrinkles her nose. “Oh, his costume.”
She goes to a cupboard, takes a plastic garbage bag out, and hands it to him. “Put it in this, tie it up and hang onto it.”
“Thanks.”
Opening the closet, he stuffs the costume into the bag. He fumbles with the knot until Petra comes over and ties it for him.
“You still have that plastic card I gave you?”
He picks it up from the table.
“Put it in your purse and only take it out when you want something. You lose it and it’s like you lost a stack of cash. Also, I made another copy of the map. Remember how to fold?”
Big Sal takes the new map, carefully folds it into quarters, and puts it into the purse at his side.
“Alright, you got this big guy.”
Petra disappears down the steps.
Big Sal stares at the tied garbage bag.
I guess this matters somehow.
Swinging it over his left shoulder, he heads to the street outside Hooks.
The sun is still coming up, and the city is cool and damp from the night. City scents waft around him like clouds of swamp bugs.
With a deep breath, he tries to smell out Raven, but doesn’t find anything. What he does smell is a warming trace of cinnamon.
“Oh ho ho, where do I find cinnamon buns?”
Fortunately, it comes from the direction he needs to go.
Within a block, the buildings grow taller than any trees he’s ever seen. Their shadows shrink as the sun climbs.
He walks past a building spilling buttery, salty scents over human emotions ranging from fear-tart to water-return.
CHIMERA DOME flickers on a marquee that curves over the sidewalk before a building shaped like a giant ball cut in half. A statue of a strange animal with two heads, a snake for a tail, and wings crouches on top of the ball.
A sign beside the entrance lists movies and showtimes.
I want to go there sometime. I think it would smell amazing. Might see something fun too, he thinks.
Must be something that humans made. Doesn’t look like a real animal.
Another block later, a scent wafts toward him, similar to the smells from Hooks. He follows it, and finds a little shop with a long line of people that runs outside. Overhead the door is a green lady wearing a crown. The shop smells of coffee: bitter, dark, sweet, and everything in between.
“Hey look, is that the Hooks croc?” says someone from the line.
“Don’t leave the line or you’re losing your place,” grumbles a short, squat man with big hands. “Coffee first. Croc later.” He cracks his knuckles.
From behind him, a teenager approaches holding up her phone.
“Can I get a selfie with you?” she asks. “Nice garbage bag.”
“Uh, okay.”
The cinnamon trace fades beneath the overwhelming coffee aroma, and he sniffs again, trying to keep it alive.
“Say ‘No croc, only rock!’” she says, holding her phone up next to him and snapping a photo while he does a funny face.
“Say what?” says Big Sal after the photo.
“I believe,” she says with a cryptic smile. “Don’t listen to the haters.”
She returns to the line where a friend switches places, does the same thing, says the same thing, and rejoins the rapidly moving line.
“See you later gater!” they call as the line pushes them inside.
“Gater?” grumbles Big Sal, sniffing for the cinnamon scent. “Not…hater…but sounds like.”
Another block and he can hear birds squawking. They sound like the night herons, only louder, raspier, and obsessed with the size of their cage.
He follows their sound for three blocks, their chatter getting louder.
“I swear this cage is the biggest one we’ll ever have!”
“No no no! This cage is just the beginning! Look at that outside! It’s a cage! One day we will fly in that great cage!”
“You’re wrong! You’re so bloody wrong!”
Big Sal comes to a stop in front of The Crooked Cage, looking in through a large front window at brightly colored birds.
“What are you talking about?” he says, connecting with the birds. “You’re inside a cage, inside a cage of a pet store, inside…” he trails off, not sure where that thought was taking him.
They quiet down and look at him, their feathers suddenly still for a moment. The door slams open and the owner comes bustling out.
“You’re the first person who ever quieted those loud, obnoxious birds!” the woman with her hair in a gray bun says. “I never should have brought them in. They’re yours! Take them!”
The birds grow quieter, tucking their heads beneath their wings.
Free snacks? What?
Big Sal shifts the garbage bag from one hand to the other. He remembers the plastic card in his purse, and begins to reach for it. But something doesn’t sit right. A bird peeks out from beneath a wing. If it leaves the pet store, it thinks it won’t be flying any more.
“Th-thank you f-for this. I’m act-actually on my way to Raven’s Mirage. I’ll be passing by l-later.”
“You’re really good with them, you know,” says the owner. “They’re smart and great pets for the right person.”
“Th-thank y-you. Later.”
She sighs and shakes her hands. “They’re expensive, but I’d give them to you. They don’t quiet down for anyone else.”
He looks at the birds and knows that he could take them back with him, and no one would be the wiser.
“Again, thanks. I must be off.”
And with that, he turns and heads across the street, to the left of where he had been coming from. The cinnamon scent grows stronger, and the birds stay silent behind him.
With the raucous squawking gone, he can hear a sound from the swamp. It’s a weird sound, a warbling hoot that echoes down the street like a coo. The bird’s scent is missing, though.
“A swamp sound, in the middle of the city?” he says to himself.
People pass him, some giving him wary looks. A little girl shies away from him, then looks up and seems to relax when she sees something.
The loon comes into view as he crosses another street. Crowds fill the sidewalks.
He stops in front of the bank. The smells rolling toward him belong to the city, yet underneath them is the scent of dry, dusty bones.
And I have to go in there later? The bone smell scares me.
He looks at the map, uses his hands to figure out which way is right, and realizes how much he’s passed that wasn’t on it.
“This map is not the walk. Way more to this than what I thought it was.”
Heading to the right, part of him wishes he had taken the birds as a snack, but a bigger part of him pushes that aside. He recognizes the hunger and begins to wonder where those cinnamon buns are.
Down the street he sees something that looks like a pink heron standing outside a small, square glass building with rainbow stripes around it. As he draws closer, the beak is unlike anything he’s ever seen.
“Whatchoo looking at?” says the flamingo in a deep, rich voice, and it leans to one side.
Big Sal takes a step back. “What? What are you? You’re not a bird. You smell like…orb. Like…”
“I’m the FlaminGo ride-guide. Where do you want to go? I’ll get you Flamin-there. Need a ticket? Take it from my beak.”
“Uh.”
Big Sal looks down the street to the left from where he came. A haze seems to shroud a building. He looks at his map, then back at the FlaminGo ride-guide.
I don’t think that thing needs a good-bye. It’s like an orb, I think.
“Goodbye!” calls the bird guide from its permanent position outside the bus shack.
“Later, gater,” he says with a smirk.
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Chapter 22 podcast drops May 16
Chapter 23 text drops May 23
