She fills it with water from the utility sink.
Her wrist shakes on the pour.
Micro-tremor.
Fatigue so embedded in the muscle fibers it’s become structural.
“So,” she says, with her back to me, watching the coffee drip. “You got a name?”
“Amorphozoa.” Not quite a name, but what the scientists labeled me is as close as it gets.
She mulls it over. “I work with Latin plant names every day. Lavandula, Rosmarinus, Calendula. That’s a genus name, isn’t it?”
“Given to me by my discoverers.”
“And you never decided to go by something more… I don’t know, casual?”
“It never occurred to me.”
“Amorphozoa…” She plays with the word, trying to find a nickname in it. “Amy… No, your body and voice are way too masculine. Phoz? No, sounds too much like the Fonz. Oh! Oz. How about Oz?”
“Oz,” I repeat. “Yes, I like it.”
“Good. I’m Maisie, but I assume you already knew that when you wrote the shipping label.”
“It’s apretty name.”
She turns around to hide her smile, pretending to be busy grabbing two mugs.
Then she looks at me.
Then she looks at the second mug.
Then back at me.
“Do you drink coffee?”
“I can. I don’t need to.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
I consider this honestly.
“I don’t know. No one’s offered it before.”
Something crosses her face, quick and raw.
She sets both mugs on the worktable.
“Well. Consider this your first cup.”
She pushes one toward my side of the table.
“If you hate it, that’s understandable. It’s the cheap stuff.”
I form my hand with more care than usual, paying attention to the fingers, keeping them close to the right number.
I pick up the mug.
