17

“Yes... the beach...” Emmet said. She could tell she hadn't interested him much.

She tried again.

“It's got seawater. And waves. And lots of rocks.”

“You know, Myra, there's probably a beach with sand and seagulls and stuff, one that's

more photogenic and picnic-friendly.”

**************************************************

She wouldn't stop grinning like a kid.

“Yes! A picnic at the beach!”

She bustled around with an air of self-importance, and his mouth slanted into a 45°

angle. He looked up which room the sandy beach was in. It was more difficult to do

anything because it was an older building with very few screens so, as in this instance,

he had to go from the kitchen to the bedroom to retrieve his handheld.

When he returned, Myra had taken the wicker basket meant for laundry and filled it

with snacks and sandwiches and the tablecloth. It was the most ungainly, impractical

arrangement he had ever seen. He wisely said nothing.

“You're supposed to have a picnic basket,” Myra explained defensively. “and a picnic

blanket. Preferably checkered, but,” she looked sadly at the pastel cloth, “this will have

to do.”

Emmet still wisely said nothing, instead holding the door open for her and letting her

lug the thing along behind him.

****************************************************

Myra lay on her back in the sand, cloud-watching. At first they'd scared her, when they

blocked out the sun, but she got used to them... they looked like cotton candy which had

met a cotton-candy vampire, pale and fluffy and never quite still. She could find all

sorts of pictures in them.

“Look,” she would tell Emmet every two minutes,” it's a shoe.” Or, “Look, it's a

tunnel.” “It's a sink.” “A diamond ring.” “A woman's face.”

Emmet was mostly response-less, with an occasional “mhmm.” He was sitting on the

tablecloth beside her, kicking a crab that had taken an unusual if languid interest in his

shoe and wishing for some cold, beachy drink, or at least a water bottle. But that's what

he got for letting Myra pack.

“I want to go to the surface,” she mused.

He glanced at her suspiciously.

“You'd die.”

“I know. But...”

******************************************

Emmett Payne was tired.

He sat at his desk with the tips of his fingers together like Sherlock Holmes, trying to

remember something important.

It was definitely important. Financial maybe... money was involved, in some way...? He

checked his messages his notes-- no, what was he doing, it was older than that, and

completely unimportant... important? unimportant? important? He must be getting old.

It was the other Emmet, who had come asking for the code. It had something to do with

the code. It had more to do with Emmet; he searched his brain.

Insomnia. Emails, money. Drinking binges to avoid the insomnia.

This was such a waste of time, he actually had a lot of work to do today, a very long list.

Lorissa. Lorissa. The day.

He went back to the screen and began the first task on his list.

*******************************************

Myra laid in the sun near someone she cared about, and for a moment everything was

ok.

And she realized she really had to pee.