He ignored me, pointing to a chair in the corner of the cramped room. Pizza boxes were stacked on it, with a half-eaten slice of pepperoni just sitting on the open lid.
“You can move that wherever. Have a slice if you want. Do you like pineapple? They forgot to add it.”
I gave him a look as I grabbed the box and shifted it to the cluttered table in front of me. With a snap of his fingers, pineapple magically appeared on the pizza.
“It’s better if you didn’t know,” Nemo said, flopping onto the worn futon and pulling a slice from the box. “So…”
“So—”
“D speaks highly of you.”
I snorted, he had to be lying. Hearing anyone talk about Death as if he was more than some ghostly acquaintance felt strange.
Nemo straightened up, narrowing his eyes with a shit-eating grin. “You’re right, he only says that when he’s drunk.”
“Drunk?”
“So, your new crap is there, in that bag. But that’s not why you’re here,” he said, ignoring my comment.
In the few minutes I’d been here, Nemo had given me mental whiplash. His thoughts shifted constantly, slipping through my grasp like sand through a sieve. He was impossible to follow, yet strangely deliberate. His appearance was peculiar in theway most teenage boys are: all awkward limbs, sharp elbows, and confidence he hadn’t yet earned. And yet, he spoke like a disgruntled man three times his age, his tone brash and impatient.
“I’m sorry,” I said evenly, folding my hands in front of me, “but I must be mistaken. Who exactly are you?”
He lifted a brow. “Me…”
I motioned to him, expression unreadable. “You’re the one I’ve corresponded with for the last forty-three years?”
He grinned, amused. “Forty-three, yep. Harbor Springs—phew.” He let out a dramatic breath, eyes gleaming with mischief. “That one was a doozy.”
I hadn’t thought of Harbor Springs in decades.
“Anyway, I figured it was time we met—” He paused to make an awful slurping sound as he sucked stringy cheese from his pizza, grease dribbling down his fingers.
I resisted the urge to recoil.
Unzipping the bag, I rifled through the documents he’d prepared. My new name. My new life. “Why now?” I asked, quiet but firm.
He didn’t answer at first, simply leaned back against the sagging futon with an exhale. “Things change. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe I’m finally cracking. You can call it curiosity.”
“Curiosity,” I echoed, more to myself than to him.
He pulled a manila folder from a teetering stack beside him and tossed it my way, leaving smears of marinara across the front. I caught it with a practiced hand, suppressing the reflexive grimace.
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
“What you asked for. Information about your… issue.”
I began to open it, but Nemo let out a sharp sound, lunging forward to press his greasy hands against mine. “Not here.You’re going to have questions, and I don’t have answers. So—later.”
“You said it wasn’t possible.”
He leaned back again, hands raised in mock surrender. “I know what I told you, Astoria. But I changed my mind and this is the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
“Okay…”
He nodded once, already halfway through another slice of pizza, barely acknowledging me as the television blared in the background.
I flipped through the rest of the documents, inspecting the details—my new identification, credentials, fake address, resume—until I found a small envelope tucked into my passport. I opened it, pausing when I saw the license bearing my true name.
