He shakes his head, his cheeks bulging. “She’s fine. Girls eat on the floor. It’s in the bylaws,” he says, his words jumbling out of his full mouth. He stuffs his face with even more food, unable to keep up with the pace of food streaming out of the kitchen. And soon enough, I’m doing likewise. I’m famished, I realize, a good sign that I really am over my illness. Dishes roll out of the kitchen, hot, charred, the meat of squirrel and rabbit and pig and cow, all accompanied by the most decadent sauces of mouthwatering succor.

“Where does all this food come from?” I ask to no one in particular, and no one bothers to answer. After two courses of dessert, we lean back in our chairs, gorged and sated. A bell rings from the back of the hall; at once all cutlery is put down. Benches scrape back and the villagers rise as one. Only the elders remain seated, still eating.

A girl shuffles to the center of the hall.

“A reading of the bylaws,” she proclaims in a clear, loud voice. “Number one.”

“Remain together in groups of three or more,” booms everyone else in unison. “Solitariness is not permitted.”

“Number two,” the tall girl yells.

“Smile always with the joy of the Provider,” shout the girls.

“Number three.”

“Obey the elders as unto the Provider himself.”

They remain standing as another elder, still chewing, stands up. “We have wonderful news. We celebrate today the birthdays of Cassie, Fiona, and Sandy. Cassie and Fiona will be sleeping in the tavern facilities tonight; Sandy will be napping there this afternoon.”

There is no response from the girls.

The elder sits down. At that, the villagers are led out row by row. A large blackboard stands by the exit doors. As each girl walks past the board, she slows to read it.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s their daily assignment,” Epap says. “Every day, each villager is assigned to a different cottage for a specific task: sewing, maternity care, cooking, whatever. The elders say it’s good to become adept at all things. The daily assignments are completely randomized. You never know who you’ll be working with, or sleeping next to. Because you sleep in the same cottage you worked in that day. You work in the fabrics cottage, you sleep there that night. Helps foster a sense of community. Mixes things up.”

After supper, Krugman and a handful of elders take me on a tour. Epap and the other boys, already familiar with the layout of the Mission, scamper off. Sissy is nowhere to be seen. When I ask about her, the elders merely shrug their shoulders. Unlike the village girls, the elders are sure-footed, their strides long and natural, their boots striking the flagstone and brick path with strident confidence.

“We pride ourselves on two things in this village,” Krugman remarks, his pudgy arms swinging back and forth. “Food and singing.” As if on cue, one of the elders lets loose a gargantuan burp, foul and wet, the stink of rotten eggs and sour milk. It drifts wetly through us.

“That’s not the singing part,” one of the elders says, snorting out laughter as the other elders laugh their approval.

“This here,” Krugman says a minute later, “is the culinary section of the village. You only need to sniff to know you’re here. You could gain weight just by breathing in these sweet smells.” He takes in the cottages. “Come, let’s take a peep into one.”

We enter the nearest cottage, the bakery. The aroma of baking bread, donuts, and croissants fills the air. I’m first into the cottage, and in the second before the girls inside become aware of our entrance, I catch their expressions. Dour, grim, as if all color has been sucked away, leaving the washed-out kitchen a somber gray. And then the girls are smiling, their voices trilling, a light switched on.

“Welcome! What a wonderful surprise!” a nearby girl says with upturned lips and sprightliness in her movements.

“Prepare treats for our esteemed guests, on the double!” Krugman shouts stridently. Motes of flour blow from his mouth like a frosty winter breath.

We are given samples of cupcakes, soufflés, all delectable. As we leave, the girls bow down, hands clasped in front of them, thanking us for the visit. Everyone is smiling.

“Where do you get all this food?” I ask Krugman as we make our way down the street. We walk past a group of girls carrying buckets, water sloshing inside, smiling bright and bowing as we pass. “All the ingredients the girls were using,” I continue when Krugman doesn’t answer. “I’ve seen very little farmland, so where does it all come from?”

Krugman gazes at me, mirth gushing from his eyes, as if sheer happiness alone is answer enough.

“It has to come from somewhere—” I start to say.

“The Good Provider is faithful,” Krugman says. “His provisions are new every morning, new every morning.”

“I don’t think—”

“Ahh, we’ve arrived at our next stop! The singing sector!” Krugman bellows, turning away from me. Two elders are staring at me. Their eyes burn with a corrosive friendliness.

“These cottages here,” Krugman pronounces, “are the apple of my eye. This is where we train our choir. Only the most musically gifted are permitted to train here. Listen, can you not hear them?” He pushes the door open, and the music comes to an instant stop.

“Elder Krugman, we’re so glad you’ve deigned to visit us,” the girl seated at the piano says. By the protrusion of her stomach, she looks to be at least seven months pregnant.

Krugman smiles. “I’ve been telling our guest about what a special group you are. I trust you will not disappoint him in days to come.”

“Certainly not.”

More pleasantries are exchanged. Their voices trilling, their faces plastered with sunny sweet smiles.

And it is that way in every cottage we visit: the carpentry cottage, the woodwork barn, the fabric and design cottages where girls learn knitting, crochet, embroidery, macramé, cross-stitching. We are greeted with bowed heads and stilted exchanges. Even the girls we pass on the main street act with the same petrified friendliness, teeth exposed, smiling to the ground. Only the babies in the maternity ward—there are rows and rows of occupied cribs—veer away from the scripted small talk, their cries and screams shrill with displeasure.

The tour ends upon night’s arrival. The glow of dusk, settling like a purple film of dust upon the mountains, is erased by the descent of night. Almost all the elders drop out of the tour, citing a meeting, and head off to the tavern. I’m left with only a pair of junior elders, silent and glum. Streetlamps blink on.

“We’ll take you to your new lodging cottage,” they say.

“Where my friends are?”

They shake their heads. “There’s no room for you in that cottage. We’ve been instructed to take you elsewhere. You’ll like it. It’s recently built, a brand new cottage, no one else in it. Lots of privacy.”

“I’d prefer to stay with my friends. I don’t see why I have to be all alone.”

“Come now. You won’t be the only one who’s alone. The girl, what’s her name, the little pip-squeak—Sissy—she’s out on the farms.”

I stop. “She’s not with the boys?”

“She has big feet. Girls with big feet are not permitted to sleep in the town vicinity. Big feeters must sleep off the town premises, on the farm. It’s in the bylaws.”

“Speak of the devil,” the other elder says. “There she is.”

Sissy is with a group of ten girls. An elder looms right behind Sissy, gazing at her backside with eerie focus. His rotund arms fall out of his sleeveless vest like hairy globs of lard.

“Hey, Sissy,” I say.

“Hey,” she replies quickly. “Gene.” There’s a plaintive quality to her voice. Then the elder coaxes Sissy forward. The group proceeds down the cobblestone path. I watch as they blink into darkness before reappearing, smaller and diminished, in the cone of the next streetlamp. At the last streetlamp, Sissy turns to look at me. Her face is small and pale. She is mouthing words to me. Come to me. And then she falls out of the light and into a darkness that swallows her whole.

18

ASHLEY JUNE COMES to me in my sleep. It is a strange dream that skirts the hazy line of a full-blown nightmare. I am back at the Heper Institute, in the isolated library where I stayed. The musty stench of dust, moldy books, and yellowed pages fills the air. Ashley June emerges from the darkness in a crinoline hooped wedding dress. She descends from the ceiling, her face iridescent white and unspeakably sad. Her eyes are preternaturally large, brimming with black eyeliner and tears. But she is not crying as she takes my hand. No, she does not take my hand, but my wrist, and this is the first sign that something is very wrong.

We glide along the brick path toward the Institute. On each side, rows of staffers stand watching us, their faces somber and disinterested, their bodies slouched over with fatigue. As if they have been waiting for a very long time for us to pass through. No one speaks. Even the wind that kicks up ghouls of sand in the desert plains is silent. Then we are entering the main building of the Heper Institute. In the foyer, as we step on the carpet (the touch of the silk on my bare feet is seductive and the threads seem to individually stroke themselves against my soles), the hunters are there to greet us with silent acknowledgment. They are hanging upside down, scratching their wrists unhurriedly, their bodies swaying slightly like carcasses hung in the breeze. Their wounds from our last violent encounter gape at me, thigh wounds and cratered holes in their chests and heads. Crimson Lips hangs still impaled by the harpoon. Her lips are bright red as they whisper, over and over, Gene, Gene, Gene. All the time, Ashley June holds my wrist, not my hand, her fingertips shockingly sharp, scratching my skin. As if all of this is so very funny, a long, drawn-out joke. But eyeliner is now streaking down from the corner of her expressionless, dry eyes.

She guides me down the stairs, both of us gliding down with ease. The wintry chill intensifies, the blackness concentrating until it feels like we are pushing through cold black gel. Ashley June’s wedding dress, glowing white, is like a white flame falling into a dark well.