Page 104 of Hot Ghost Summer

A cold finger trails the divot of my spine, down from the nape of my neck.

Oversensitised, I squirm.

“You’re the only one who’ll ever be the death of me, Theo.”

thirty-two

Emotional Support Cow

Hollis

The early morning breeze carries an invigorating bite, prompting Theo to rub his palms over his bare arms. Bare, because despite the overnight drop in temperature, he was too excited to bring me to meet the ghost cows he risked his life for to even grab a jacket.

“Weather’s turning,” he comments, tilting his face skyward as he walks us down the high street.

No one looks at him twice as he weaves against the flow of early commuters. All heading to the same destination, at the same speed, and wearing the same vacant expressions. They’re all too absorbed in their phones, locked inside their digital worlds, to notice.

I used to be one of them.

“Bridge’ll be happy,” he continues. “She loves when the earth’s damp and her snorts visibly puff out. She moos more just t’ watch it happen. It’s cute.”

Trailing his fingertips over the safety railing that separates him from the cycle lane, he collects the dew, and from inside my new skin, I smile. It’s hard not to. Theo has such an infectious warmth about him, a magnetic generosity of spirit that makes everyone around him feel lighter. He moves through life with a buoyant grace, and now he holds my world in those same open hands.

“You’re thinking pretty loudly in there.” He slides his fingers along the rigid seam of his cap and tugs it firmly down upon the crown of his head.

“You can hear what I think?” I ask.

What we are now isn’t documented anywhere for me to help us learn. There’s no precedent to take guidance from. Technomancers are rare enough, but that one would acquire the biorhythms of a human…

Learning our abilities and boundaries will take time.

He shrugs. “Not exactly: not specific things. It’s more like… your thinking makes my brain ache.” Pausing, the bridge of his nose wrinkles. “Wait. Can you hear what I think?”

“No,” I confirm. “It seems we’ve retained that much of ourselves, at least.”

“Phew,” Theo’s shoulders slope and he swings his arms in relief. “Imagine how not fun things would be between us if you knew how I was going t’ break the rules before I did.”

I corral a static web into two cuffs that encircle his wrists, and cinch them tight against his skin to keep his arms pinned by his sides. “Did you learn nothing from last night’s lesson, Baby?”

“Mhm, yup,” he answers immediately. “I learned it hurts when I sit down…”

“Theo…”

“Aaand that I want your lips tattooed on my arse cheek where you sucked that bruise.” His mouth stretches into a wide smile.

“I like my marks on you too, but I don’t want anyone else seeing or touching what’s mine.”

“But if a tattoo artist can’t see or touch me, how do I get your lips permanently on my arse?”

The middle-aged woman who passes us by at that precise moment arches an eyebrow and gives Theo a judgmental once-over. He holds his breath until she’s a good ten steps away before laughing out loud. But despite the light-hearted humour, a small pang of grief hits me.

I’ve fallen for Theo, committed to him, yet I can’t always be present alongside him. I can’t walk down the street holding his hand, can’t take him to a restaurant for dinner, nor out for an evening’s entertainment. Wherever we go, he’ll go alone—at least physically. And while he seems fine with that now, how long before that changes? How long before he realises he deserves more?

“Right, come on Thinky MacThinkerson,” he quips, pushing through the full glass door to the visitor’s centre of the rescue farm. He marches us straight through to the yard, and comes to rest against the metal-covered gate. Leaning over it, he stares out across the field. “Can you see ’em?”

A heavy fog has settled on the grass, glowing faintly and blurring the shapes hidden within like milk dropped in water. Through his eyes, I lose the enhanced vision I usually have, and it takes a moment to determine what he’s pointing at.

At least fifty dairy cows float just above the dirt, their breaths rising as a cold and shimmering smoke rather than a warm vapour, adding to the illusion of an early morning mist. Hollow eyes hold the pale grey light of dawn, and their silent movements offer only the rushing of wind when they turn.