When news came that the boy was awake, and breathing on his own, people all across the town heralded it as a miracle. For a few days, it was the only news anyone reported on. And then, with the steady, inexplicable crawl of a slow-moving stream, people forgot about it. There were other things to be outraged about. A teacher in the downtown area was caught with a huge cache of lesbian pornography, a cab driver ran someone down by the city limits. When the flashing lights outside their makeshift curtains dies down to a trickle, and finally stopped entirely, Bubbles took the curtains down. As she plucked the clothespins from the first blanket edge, she paused, waiting for the sound of cameras, or angry shouts. The blanket slumped to the ground, letting a bright streak of light into their living room, and there was no one outside. She took the rest of the quilts down with superspeed, unsure why it felt so distasteful to her. On some dim level she realized that after their month-long internment, it wasn't the boy who was being forgotten, but the girls themselves. She blinked against the sudden brightness of the sun reflecting off their neighboring buildings, and felt a weight in her chest, filling her up. Suddenly she needed to be remembered, and needed, and useful. She burned with it. It gnawed at her the rest of the day, scorching the edges of her like a piece of paper. Finally, while she and Buttercup were trying to watch a crass comedy about college kids on a road trip, (which Buttercup found hilarious, and had recovered enough to laugh plenty for both of them) Bubbles stood from the couch and walked out the door, into the oppressive rising heat of an early summer afternoon, to talk with the mayor.

It went exactly as she had been afraid it would. They dismissed her, looking not into her face but past it, and fed her line after line of clipped, political bullshit about how they would wait until the tide changed, maybe in a few months. Secretly Bubbles wondered how likely it was that they would be waiting until the upcoming election was over, and came to the conclusion that it was not only part of the mayor's plan, but the plan in its entirety. Or even more probably, Ms. Bellum's plan, as the ancient mayor seemed less able to make decisions than ever. She glared at Ms. Bellum from the middle of the room, hating the way middle age had served only to give the official an air of authority and grace. And it was then, while Bubbles stared into the mass of frizzy, soft curls covering the face of the woman currently making her life hell, that the screams started below.

Through the first few cries, Ms. Bellum made a show of keeping calm, staring directly into Bubble's face, continuing her practiced speech. But the screams began to rise from the streets into a horrifying chorus, and underneath and around it there came a huge, metallic whine as machinery moved. They could hear the sidewalks crunching, and a shadow began to creep over the edge of the mayor's carpet. The mayor and his assistant craned around Bubbles to look, and Bubbles stared them down, pretending to ignore the pins and needles that swept over her skin in waves, the tense muscles in her calves and stomach rising and flexing. The mayor sat back in his seat, pale and nervous, and Bubbles watched Ms. Bellum shift her jaw, relished the uncomfortable look on her elegant face. Finally, she looked at Bubbles and locked eyes. Bubbles grinned, and lifted off the ground for the first time in a month, bursting through their plate glass window and out into the sunlight with something close to joy.