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He plays dumb. “Who are who?”
“Zachary Vazquez, Courtney Wright, Matthew Praver,” she says, reading them right off of his forehead, “and all the rest.”
He has no reason to lie to her. He had the names tattooed there so that they could be seen. His days of hiding are over. “They’re Unwinds,” he tells her. “They had no one to mourn for them. But now they have me.”
She nods in unconditional approval. “Very cool. Nervy, too. I like it.” She shifts from the window seat to the aisle seat. “So are they everywhere?”
“They’re head to toe,” he tells her.
“Wow! How many names are there?”
“Three hundred and twelve,” Lev says, and adds with a grin, “any more and it would look cluttered.”
That makes her laugh. She ponders his face and his clean-shaven head, then says, “You know, your hair will eventually grow back. You’ll have to keep shaving it if you want people to see the names.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
The train pulls out, and she moves across the aisle to sit next to him. Taking his hands, she examines the many names on his forearms, hands, and fingers. He lets her, enjoying the positive attention as much as he enjoyed the negative attention from the disapprovers.
“I like the color choices, and the fact that you didn’t spare your face. It was a bold choice.”
“None of them were spared, so why should any part of me be?”
He made sure that there wouldn’t be a single part of his body not covered by the names of the Unwound. His only regret is that there aren’t more. Jase was right. So much ink so fast hurt to the point of tears, and several sleepless nights. Even now it hurts, but he bore the pain, and he’ll bear it still. The simple lettering of the names in red, black, blue, and green looks like war paint from a distance. Only when you get close enough to see Lev’s eyes do the patterns resolve into the names of the Unwound. Jase is a true artist.
“I think it’s beautiful,” says the girl with the cobalt streak. “Maybe I’ll follow your lead.” She looks at her right arm. “I could ink an Unwind right here. Just one, though. There are times when less is more.”
“Sabrina Fansher,” he suggests.
“Excuse me?”
“Sabrina Fansher. She would have been number three hundred and thirteen if I’d kept on going.”
The girl frowns. “Who was she?”
“I wish I knew. All I have are their names.”
She sighs. “Her memories are scattered to the wind. Sad beyond sad.” Then she nods. “Sabrina Fansher it shall be.”
She introduces herself as Amelia Sabatini—her Italian last name making him think of Miracolina. Then she asks him his name. He hesitates before he tells her, still not entirely used to his new alias. “Mahpee,” he tells her. “Mahpee Kinkajou.”
“Interesting name.”
“It’s a Chancefolk name. You can call me Mah.”
“Better than Pee. Or Kinky.” She giggles. He decides he likes her, which could be a problem. His plans do not leave room for friendship.
“How far are you going?” he asks her.
“Kansas City. How about you?”
“All the way to the end of the line.”
“New York?”
“Or bust.”
“Well, I hope you don’t do that,” Amelia says, giggling again, this time a bit nervously. “What’s there in the Big Apple
