PLATEAU CITY, NEW YORK

Fifteen hours on a jet is a long time to spend in the air for anyone. Rhonda was able to sleep, but as she deplaned at LaGuardia Airport in New York City she felt utterly exhausted.

It had also been fifteen hours without a cigarette. Forget catching the train, the first thing Rhonda wanted to do was get outside and have a smoke.

She'd forgotten how truly mild American cigarettes seemed by comparison. It was like going from whiskey to a wine cooler. No comparison, really, she thought as she eyed her cigarette pensively. It hardly seemed worth finishing. Regardless, out of habit, she finished it then smoked a second for good measure before catching the train to Plateau City.

A taxi ride later, she stood at her front door. Things were not as she had imagined them. The plants by the stoop had wilted up, lacking for water from their errant owner. The lawn was overgrown, and an orange eye-sore notice from the city was waiting in her mailbox. Rhonda reached in her pockets for her keys, then remembered she didn't have them with her.

For all she knew, they were back in Springfield, or gone. Rhonda stood on her front step and leafed through the mail. Apparently her car was at an impound lot across town. Her keys were probably in it. Or there was the spare set in her bedroom.

Welcome home, she thought sadly as she broke a window in the back door and let herself in.

Of course the electric would be out, she realized after she flipped the switch. Water too. And heat. Rhonda nailed a piece of plywood over the empty pane. The fact that no one had broken in, aside from her, was of little solace at the moment. She walked into the living room. Her orchids? All dead. Everything was cold and dark. She wandered into her bedroom and lay down on the dusty comforter, an arm behind her head.

She reached over to her nightstand and pulled an old photo out of a drawer full of papers. A stout man with distinctly Grecian features stood, his arm around the waist of a dark-haired woman. To their right stood a boy combined from both their features. On the left stood a diminutive blond woman.

Rhonda shook her head as she looked at the photo, one of many taken over the years.

Thaddeus Dimas, his wife Evita, and their son Rhodes. And, of course, Rhonda herself. Why, Tad? Why not accept the NRC's regulations? Why were you unfaithful to Evita? Why did you have to die? The photo yielded no answers, only the smiles from a happier time. Rhonda draped an arm over her face, and closed her eyes. Sleep would not come easily.


Across town, in a one story ranch at the edge of the pine barrens, someone else was struggling to sleep. Antoine Radson tossed and turned, his mind anywhere but in his bed. It felt strange sleeping alone. There was too much space, and no one to put his arms around.

Earlier that evening, Preston had gone out by himself. Well, not by himself. He'd gone to see an art exhibition with a man he met downtown. It was purely friendly, Preston insisted, merely a shared interest in modern art; something Antoine neither understood nor enjoyed.

Antoine could see Preston's side of it, but it didn't make him feel good. If you ever find yourself wanting anything with someone else as more than a friend, I expect you to tell me… then I expect you to move out. If you don't come home some night, don't come home again. Ever.

Antoine had not drawn a line in the sand. He'd carved it in stone. It was a matter he'd never yield on.

When Preston returned home, Antoine had been sulky and irritable. Preston had decided it best he stay in his own room at the other end of the house. You need to calm down. We looked at paintings, and then I came home, he'd said before shutting the door.

In the back of Antoine's mind he worried, despite Preston's reassurances. The late nights, sleeping in different rooms… it wasn't comfortable for Antoine. He wasn't sure what he felt, but he knew he didn't like it. He hoped this wouldn't become the new normal.

He debated padding down the hall and curling up beside Preston, but the bed in that room was narrow for two people. If Preston wanted space Antoine felt he had to respect that.

A part of him, the part that wanted Preston's focus on him, wondered if now would be a good time to tell Preston about Rhonda's escape. On the flip side, he didn't want Preston to think it was just a ploy for attention.

It might also throw Preston for a complete tailspin. The man had been making slow but steady progress since the fatal incident at AlkaliStark, and was finally starting to act like his old self again. Much as he was glad to see his housemate feeling better, Antoine missed Preston's dependence on him.

Maybe he doesn't need me anymore, Antoine wondered sadly. Is it even worth telling him about Rhonda at this point?

Antoine had no answers for that.

"I think my head's gonna explode," Antoine announced to the empty room.

There was no reply, not that he expected one.