Micah Eslinger sat on the toilet lid with their dinosaur of a laptop heating their thighs, waiting for another round of SlaughterChase II to load. What sucked the most was that for all the hours they'd wasted on this stupid game, they weren't even particularly good at it.
The alternative was doing their English homework, but that was equally stupid. What did you do over the summer? Everyone else went on vacations, like Hailey and her dumb trip to Baltimore. Micah had stayed home, like always, and had done nothing, like freaking always. Dad had said it was too risky for them to travel. Again. All Micah had to write about was another three months spent moping around in their room and playing Neocapes flash games and chatting with strangers on Neocapes roleplaying forums. Big whoop.
They caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror and turned away, resolving not to do that again. So ugly. Did other people hate having hair too? No volume of conditioner could tame their long wild tangles into submission. A scissors had tempted them more than once, but Dad would ground them if he noticed even half an inch missing. It reminded him of the chemo year, he claimed.
"Elizabeth!"
Speak of the freaking devil. The game couldn't have finished loading at a better moment. Micah tried to concentrate on hitting the right arrow keys at the right times, directing the pixellated Crawler into fiery debris and radioactive barrels.
Mom would have let them cut their hair. Mom would have cut it herself and made it look professional.
"Elizabeth! Get down here!"
On their screen Crawler devoured a hero, earning bonus points, but did not swerve hard enough to avoid crashing into a line of containment foam. He blinked out of existence. Then a miserable-looking Crawler popped up, begging Micah to try again.
"Elizabeth! Right now! "
Micah sighed. The pre-round advertisements would take at least another minute. They set their laptop down on the towel rack. They unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall, where their cane was leaning.
An unfamiliar voice floated up the stairs. Dad had a visitor.
Micah left the cane against the wall. Edging down the staircase on their butt would be quieter than walking. When they reached the bottom of the railing, still hidden from view, they peeped at the front door.
Dad was there, along with a strange lady in a business suit and sunglasses.
"—actually here to see Micah," she was saying.
Dad visibly stiffened, as Micah had come to expect. "No one by that name lives here. I'm sorry, who did you say you were?"
"I'm from the Make-A-Wish Foundation, and I know Micah's wish wasn't tickets to the Super Bowl."
A pause.
"Of course it was," Dad said. "Liz loves football."
"You're not very observant if you think so," the businesslady said, matter-of-factly. "They have demonstrated zero interest in spectator sports, even before losing the ability to participate in them."
"Okay. Now see here." Dad's voice turned stern. "You have no right to decide what my daughter is or isn't interested in. I watched her write it down myself."
"I asked Micah myself," the businesslady said, "and do you know what their real wish was?"
Dad started to stammer a response, but something in her posture and voice brooked no complaint. He fell silent.
"It was to see their mother again," she said.
Micah drew a sharp breath. There was only one person in the world they had confided in. Their forum penpal, the brute-thinker package on their fantasy team who'd traded them an ultra-rare capecapecape. Was this lady—?
"She's dead," Dad said. "She's been dead for years. Not that it's any of your beeswax."
"Yes." The businesslady looked up at Micah, making direct eye contact, like she'd known they had been there all along. "Come here, Micah."
Holding onto the railing, Micah obeyed in spite of themselves.
"Liz, wh—" Dad was interrupted again, this time by the entry of someone else.
The businesslady had stepped to one side, and a different woman emerged from behind her. She planted both feet on the welcome mat with the leisurely confidence of a person who not only knew the place but owned it.
Micah carefully took stock of every feature, daring to hope.
Same brown-black hair styled into a voluminous bun, with a rebellious pink streak down the fringe that made her look nearly a decade her junior. Same alert blue eyes, seeking out every detail and committing it to memory. Same wine-dark lips curling into a wicked, all-knowing smile.
"Mom," Micah said, unable to flatten the lump in their throat. "Is that really…"
"Hello Micah." Same voice. "I'm home."
Micah stared at her speechlessly, tears eclipsing their vision. Impulse grabbed control of their limbs. They half-lurched, half-stumbled into their mother's arms, and she held them like they'd never left.
Dad was too gobsmacked to chastise Micah for exerting themselves. "Chelsea!? What the—what the hell? You're dead!"
The woman looked past him, ignoring his presence altogether.
"She's not quite your mother," the businesslady said. "She's slightly different. But she's yours."
"Different how?" Micah asked.
The businesslady reached up and touched the back of Not-Quite-Mom's neck. After a moment, Not-Quite-Mom placed her palms squarely on her ears, unscrewed, and detached her head from her body.
Micah and their father both jumped back. But no blood spurted from the joint—it was a clean break, exposing a cross-section of muscle and bone. A notched metallic cord snaked from the core, still connected to the base of the skull.
"Hello Micah," said the head in the woman's hands. "I love you."
"Instructions for assembly and maintenance are in her pants pocket. Check your forum inbox for the activation code." The businesslady backed over the welcome mat briskly. "Wish granted."
In the next instant, she was gone.
