the tissue of its inconstancy
flakes away in your hands.
You push flakes into shapes and call this reality
and smear nouns' concrete between its parts
until you have something you can believe and live in.
But on those days when past and future jumble
you think maybe everything is aflake
soft and tentative, and only ever temporary:
the quiet fall at night outside your window
beckons you forever back, forwards, into.
— "To Break Into Flakes", Felicity Plunkett
"Mr Holden," Janine's tone is enough to make you turn around immediately, pausing mid-sentence. Eugene says something about an unexpected visit and starts a song; you don't care, because Janine doesn't just burst in without a reason. "We received this rofflenet transmission an hour ago. I would wait until your shift ends, but Mr Yao confirmed your sister's name is Jill Holden — is that true?"
Your mouth is dry and you're not sure you can remember how to breathe. You've dreamt of this.
"Yeah, yes, Jill's — are you sure?"
"There may be more than one Jill Holden, of course, but I thought you should know. Would you like me to send further inquiries?"
"Could — could I do it? Like, write it?"
You leave without looking back at Eugene, and feel as if you're in a dream.
It is Jill, your Jill, your sister Jill, your baby sister Jill, and when you find out you hug Eugene's shoulders so hard you might crush them. (You are still meant to be on the radio, but once you sent the message you were useless, fidgeting and distracted, so Eugene just queued up some pre-recorded segments while you went to wait at the computer.) Your eyes shine and your grin is wide and white and ecstatic, and you don't notice when Eugene slumps a little in your arms, because your sister is alive and the world hasn't ended.
Your sister is, Janine estimates, three days' travel away, and that's without knowing the conditions for most of the journey. They don't have many contacts out that way, and it's coming into winter. It's unwise to try to reach her.
Unwise has never stopped you before. You can't think about anything else, anything other than going to Wattermere Settlement and hugging your sister and reassuring yourself with your eyes and your fingertips that she still exists.
"If I can get to her then she can come back here, settle in at Abel and we'll be a family again," you say as you and Eugene get ready for bed that night. You are still consumed by the possibilities. "You'll love her. The two of you would get on like a house on fire, I reckon — I'm sure she has plenty of embarrassing stories to tell about me. She was always better than me at lit, too, so you can finally have that discussion about the finer points of John Donne's sonnets. From memory she's more of a Margaret Atwood girl, though."
There's a silence, and you turn around to see why Eugene isn't answering.
"Jack," he begins, and you sit down, because that hesitancy can't be something good, "how do you plan to get there? You know Janine can't spare any runners for a trip that'll take at least a week. And what if Jill doesn't want to leave? Will you stay there with her?"
"She's got to want to leave! I mean, she can bring whoever she likes back — if she's got her boyfriend there, I'm sure Janine will let him come too."
Eugene shakes his head, and you finally sees the pain creasing the skin around his eyes.
"No, what if she doesn't want to come?"
Who will you choose: her or me?
That's the question, Eugene just doesn't want to ask it outright.
"I…"
When you can't follow that with anything, Eugene continues. "I can't go with you this time. You can't travel by yourself, not for that long. You'll get killed. You're safe here, Jack." You're safe here with me, is the unspoken part, but you hear it anyway.
"Jill is my family. I have to find her."
"I'm your family too."
When you go to bed there is a gap between your bodies, and the inch feels like a mile.