Ivana Kane is a complex, depressed system of a human. She was born in Zagreb, to a Croatian mother and a Malian father, and she was raised Christian. She’s the youngest of three children, but that’s a story for another day, unless she feels like letting everyone meet Luka. And she doesn’t, not right now. If you ask her elder sister, she’ll say Ivana was the punching bag, and she needed to be protected: in fact, Ivana’s sister Blanca, three years her elder, saved her life. It’s something she’ll get into later, maybe.

        Today, she’s standing in the middle of a small apartment in eastern Kodiak, meeting a man who placed the ad for new roommates. She’s been in America for three years, and came across the world alone, which was scary. However, some would argue it was a matter of life or death. Still, Ivana knows almost nothing about her new culture, and less about her new place of residence. She feels lost, confused, and very scared on her own. Of course, she’s not exactly alone, but this isn’t something that’s obvious to a lot of people.  It isn’t something she wants to be obvious.

        The man she’s meeting greets her with no hint of a smile, and hardly looks at her. “You’re Ivana?” He’s white-skinned, white-haired: looking nothing like the men back home. Even most of the people she’s met here don’t look like that. She can’t tell whether he’s disappointed or not. There’s another man here: pale, though not as pale as the other, and looking around with a sense of eagerness.

        She nods, feeling nervous and out of place. “Yeah. I need a new place to live.” It’s a really fresh start for her. She misses her sister, but it was for the best. Who knows what happened if she hadn’t chosen to leave? It’s very cold here, nothing like the climate back home. In this small apartment with these strangers, she has no idea how to act. There’s a box in the living room, containing such things as scarves and shoes and notebooks, that she wonders about but doesn’t bring up. Under the kitchen table, a pretty white dog, lying quietly with its head on its paws.

        The white-skinned boy is exotic and beautiful, but he’s unfriendly. Ivana doesn’t know if she could live with someone like this. “That’s Lachlan,” he says, and points to the man looking around. “He’s moving in next week. Feel free to look around, or don’t; I don’t give a shit.” She was sort of waiting for this: the permission. Even if she tries to move her legs, they feel like they’re stuck to the floor. The man can’t be any older than herself, though he looks like a teenager. He gives her one long glance, and ambles away without even offering her a tour. Maybe things are different here. They certainly feel like it. Everyone seems so distinct here, which makes her anxious. Back home, she knew exactly how things worked.

        Instead of taking herself around the apartment, she walks quietly up to the man named Lachlan. “Hi.” He looks a bit like her brother - but the whole point of this immigration was to overlook him. This is challenging to her. “Can I look around with you?”

        Petra wants to front. She always does, when there’s new people to meet. But Frane would never allow that: not now, around these strangers. She has a headache. The man, Lachlan, smiles at her, looking much friendlier. “Sure! Are you thinking about moving in, too?”

        He has a smooth voice. Maybe that’s not the right way to describe it, but it’s the best word she can come up with. “I don’t know.” She wonders what happened to the previous roommate. When she asked the guy about it, he became irritated and changed the subject. “Maybe.” Ivana found the ad on a social media page, and she’s barely scraping by in her current place of residence, and so that’s why she’s here. She knows some people are unfriendly – but they should at least try to be, she’d think, if they’re meeting people. She has opinions of the man renting out the place, but she’s not a woman who likes to gossip, and anyway first impressions aren’t always very accurate. “Who lived here before?” Ivana isn’t super outgoing, but she isn’t shy either.

        Lachlan eyes a simple piece of artwork on the wall. There isn’t much here: a television, a table, a rug. The guy seems like a minimalist, and even that’s an understatement. “Not sure. A sister, or a friend, or something.” The white dog is asleep under the table. Ivana has never had a pet. Her family could never afford one, not even something small like a guinea pig. Someday, she’d love a ferret.

        When Ivana was ten years old, she was called to testify against her brother. Carim was a boy of sixteen, who had not only tortured Ivana herself, but her sister as well. She had, at one point, a younger sister by the name of Nika, who was three years old when she died. Afterward, Carim had tried to kill Ivana, and she’d escaped, but only barely. It’s quite hard, even years later, to forget about all of this. She’s still not sure what happened to her remaining family, and she isn’t curious. As a teenager, things inside her mind didn’t make sense to her, and she’d been witness to many strange things she couldn’t explain. There were many times throughout junior and upper school where she’d been confused by her own changing penmanship, and by the pages of notes she had no memory of writing. Peculiar things like these aren’t quite so commonplace these days.

        Lachlan has wandered away to examine another corner of the apartment. Ivana’s brain is very noisy. When she was younger, she’d thought this was normal: that everyone had conversations like this to themselves. The first time was rather odd. Ivana was five years old when she heard a voice inside her head – a child’s voice, that wasn’t her own. Of course, it was impossible for a five-year-old to explain an experience like this. If she had, who’s to say anyone would have believed her anyway?

        It’s summer. Ivana looks forward to the time off school, and to meeting with her therapist. Everybody thinks therapy is for “crazy” people. Everybody thinks Ivana is faking, that she wants attention or pity or something else that couldn’t be further from the truth. Ivana would give anything to not have the attention on her, and to just be looked at the same as everyone else.

        On the table, Ivana spots an application form for tenancy. She takes one, folds it, puts it in her backpack in case she changes her mind about this place. It isn’t very homey. She supposes nowhere ever is until you make it that way. “Okay,” she says – though it’s unlikely anyone is listening. “I’m going to go now. Thanks for letting me come see your apartment.” She was never told the name of the guy who listed it, and has spoken barely five sentences to him. He waves at her from the kitchen chair, saying nothing; she already finds it obvious he’s not a people person. She has to meet her therapist, and then get to work. Finding somebody new after moving was difficult: her therapist back home knew her whole past, and it’s hard getting on that level with somebody new. But it was necessary for her sanity and survival.

        Ivana works the night shift at the supermarket. Most of the time, her alters keep themselves under control at work, but she has friends there, and Petra is a chatterbox. Ivana met Petra when she was fifteen, though she didn’t yet have a name or an explanation to match the voice in Ivana’s head. Something valuable she’s learned is to communicate with each one of them, every day, if possible. Her therapist says it’s important to foster relationships within the system, and this is something Ivana has had trouble with. The man’s name is Aaron, and he’s nowhere near as preferable as Ivana’s therapist back home, but he’s the best she could find. At least, Ivana’s system is comfortable enough around the man now; he’s met more than just her. But Vito and Frane are shy, and Toma is too traumatized to speak.

        “Good afternoon, Ivana.” Aaron is friendly and always greets her with a smile when she arrives. He’s a man of average build, stubbly and short-haired. His office is decorated with photographs and posters than Ivana supposes are meant to be inspirational. When she takes a seat in the seat across from him, he stands to shut the door. “How are you doing?”

        She isn’t terrible. Luka has been doing a good job looking after her. She tries to get comfortable. “We’re pretty good. We just came from looking at an apartment.” Ivana speaks in plurals much of the time, except around those who only know her as Ivana. “Thinking about moving.” Aaron is beginning to know her pretty well. But he still can’t be certain it’s Ivana he’s speaking to. Most of her alters have perfected imitating her, so that nothing is suspected by anyone. But some are better than others at keeping their tempers.

        Ivana has met several people who think she can summon her alters whenever she wants. Really, it isn’t like that. She’s been refused jobs for being dangerous, or untrustworthy, or many others things she isn’t, which really aren’t very fair to assume of her. Aaron nods. “What did you think of it?” Ivana begins to feel detached, confused: she stares into space for a moment looking dazed, and then yawns. She always yawns when she switches. It’s just one of those small hints to pay attention to.

        “Hi, Aaron!” Petra is seventeen; she speaks quickly and loudly, and changes her posture completely from Ivana’s. “Man, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve been so bored with nobody to talk to.” It really is strange to watch a person switch demeanors so quickly. Aaron has known Ivana for a while, and it’s still peculiar to him. Petra does her best to mimic the look, style, and behaviors of Ivana. So does everybody else, mostly. The last thing they want is to be exposed in front of people who don’t even know them.

. . . . . . . . . . .

        Birch’s new dog is seven years old. He was adopted from a shelter the day before, and already has made himself at home. There are many ways to deal with grief, and one is to fill it with items you don’t really need. The Pitsky has been renamed Echo, and takes to Cujo like a father to its baby. Perhaps he senses the dog’s sadness, or perhaps that’s just the way he is. In any case, it’s good to know it won’t be hard to socialize them. Birch doesn’t even really like animals. But Gracie would have had a house filled with them if she could have. She was a lover of many things – animals, nature, baking, art. She and Birch had really nothing in common, so it’s a mystery how they ever became such good friends. All of his best relationships stem from hate, he realizes. But after all, hate and love aren’t that different from each other.

        The dogs walk well together. It’s nice to get out of his house sometimes, away from all the memories, away from the weird new roommates. It’s been two weeks since Gracie died, and Birch really didn’t want to have to resort to renting out her space. But he has no choice, after days of struggling to meet ends meet alone, but to find new roommates. They’re not his first choices, but they’re all he could find, pretty much. Lachlan talks too much about things that have no relevance to anything, and Birch is growing tired of pretending to listen. The woman – Ivana? – is more pleasant. She keeps to herself, but behaves in strange ways like leaving notes all around the apartment, and forgetting things she said not too long ago. Everyone has their quirks, even Birch. Gracie’s quirk was to pace, up and down the hallway, with no destination in mind. She did this a lot in her final days.

        The night before her surgery appointment, Gracie took a bubble bath. She did this all the time with nothing to worry about, even though her mother had her concerns. Birch sat in his room, reading and listening to quiet music, occasionally getting up to knock on the bathroom door and check on Grace. He didn’t need to do this, but it put his mind at ease. She’d stayed in the tub for a long time that night, and he’d assumed it was only because she was worried, and wanted to spend some time preparing herself. And this was part of it; this was the whole reason she had wanted to take a bath in the first place. Eventually (he’s not sure how much time had passed), Cujo came running, barking outside his bedroom door until it was opened. He only ever does this when something is wrong, and so Birch didn’t take his time, but hurried down the hallway to the bathroom.

        It was a little uncomfortable seeing Gracie naked. When Birch pulled her out of the tub, she wasn’t breathing, and he’d assumed she’d swallowed a large amount of water while having a seizure. But he’s not, luckily, prone to losing his head in a crisis. After wrapping her in a large towel, he’d attempted to save her the way he’d done to Bryony, but he wasn’t so sure how long she’d been under the water. It still feels a bit like an unpleasant dream, which he’s still rather numb to. Birch doesn’t feel things like everyone else does. He has emotions, of course, he’s not a robot. They just express themselves in strange ways: something far too much, and sometimes far too little. When the ambulance arrived after Gracie’s bath, Birch didn’t have high hopes. He doesn’t know where she went after that. He’s not sure he really wants to know.

        The hardest part, in any aftermath of death, is letting people know. Birch knows it wasn’t his fault, but he feared Gracie’s family might not see it this way. He wasn’t the one to tell her parents. This wasn’t his job, and so he left it to the officers. They were understandably heartbroken, but never once spoke badly about Birch, which surprised him. It’s not as if he would have been bothered either way; he couldn’t care less what other people have to say about him. It’s Bronte’s fault, of course, although Gracie always got angry with him for pointing it out. He doesn’t care. If it hadn’t been for her, Gracie would still be alive. Bronte knows this, too, but it’s nice to remind her sometimes. Some people would say that Birch is petty, and he agrees with this.

        He’s always wanted to live off the grid. It’s a thought that came to him in his teens, after learning there was such a thing, he became obsessed with the idea. After university, perhaps, he can begin building his own home out of papercrete, on Raspberry Island, with his dogs and a boat. This would be the dream for him, and he’s already begun making it a reality. It’s easy enough to make papercrete, and it’s a great option if you’re on a budget. Birch has been saving up; he’s determined once he gets his mind set on something, and he hates being wasteful. Unfortunately, this opinion isn’t shared by much of the human race, and that’s why the planet is becoming uninhabitable.

        Work is worse than usual lately. Birch can’t tell if people are getting more irritating, or if he’s just getting more bitchy. He needs the money, though, for rent and for moving. He’s always lived on an island, technically. It’d just be nice to live on a smaller, secluded one. He could fish, hunt, cook his own food like his ancestors used to do. Many people hate living alone, but Birch would find it the most peaceful, enjoyable thing in the world.

        “Good evening,” he says to his first table, even though it’s anything but. Birch hates the mentality of the customer is always right. Because they aren’t, but everyone has to act like they are. Even if the customer is a complete asshole, Birch was always told to put up with it, and this doesn’t sit right with him. “My name is Birch, I’ll be your waiter.” This part is stupid, too. He wears a nametag, and it’s obvious he’s the one serving food. “Can I get you started on some drinks?”

        Contrary to popular belief, Birch wasn’t always this grumpy. There was a time, in childhood and adolescence, when he was carefree and cheerful, but this changed over the years. He suspects it’s because of prejudice, harassment; after a while, he just grew tired of this treatment. Some people are kind and welcoming. Maybe, at some point in his life, he would have wanted to meet these people.

        He’s working late tonight. It’d be alright if he made more money, but he sort of feels he’s working a dead-end job which will bring him nowhere. It’s busy, at least, in the seafood restaurant at which he works, and so the night will pass quickly. This is the only good thing about working with customers.

        “Come sit down,” his mother had said, years ago, when they were still on speaking terms. “There’s something you should know.” It was peculiar of her to bring this up out of nowhere, the moment Birch got home from school, but she did this sometimes. He was about fourteen years old, and still in the closet, but that’s a different story. On that day, he’d sat down beside his mother on the living room couch, and stared at her, waiting for her to tell him what was so important that it couldn’t wait. When he was born, she was fifteen years old, and dropped out of high school to look after him. This is something she’d bring up in later days, when she felt he was being ungrateful. But it isn’t something he asked her to do, and so he doesn’t feel bad about it.

        His mother, whose name is Athena, had given birth to Hyacinth ten months before, and was always tired. “Well,” she’d said, sitting up straight, her hands on her thighs; she looked almost like a puppet, posing. “You know how I was a teen mom. I was fifteen when I had you.”

        Everyone knew this. Well, everyone in the family, that is. But Birch doesn’t like being reminded. “Yep.”

        The house was noisy. It always was, when he lived there. He hasn’t missed it. “Well, you see, your father was a junior at my high school, and I was a freshman. We weren’t together that long. I got pregnant, and he ran away and never spoke to me again.” She looked bothered by this, how many years later, as if it were a surprise the guy didn’t want to be a teen dad. “You have a different father than Lynx, or Monty, or any of your siblings.” She paused for a moment, giving him time to absorb everything, and then continued. “Technically, they’re your half-siblings. Emrys is only your stepfather.”

        He should have been mindblown by this, or upset, or shocked, or something along those lines. But he’s not an idiot. For some reason (he still isn’t really sure why), he wasn’t all that taken aback by the news. It made sense, in a weird way. His father had always treated him differently than the others – he was subtle about it, but Birch could still tell. “Okay,” he said, and stood up. “Can I go now?”

        His mother looked bewildered. She’d expected him to react badly, and this was a fair expectation, as he does usually react this way. She blinked, and then stood, too, stooping to pick up Hyacinth from her playpen. “Oh. Yeah. Go.” He hated all the noise, all the pointless babble. After speaking with his mother, he took himself to his small bedroom at the end of the hallway and sat down to read a book.

        “Here you are.” The restaurant is crowded and noisy, but it’s Saturday night, so what would one expect. Birch hands out his table’s drinks, swiftly, irritated by the bright light above their heads. “Do you need a few more minutes with the menu?” It’s actually very easy to pretend to be polite. Work is the only place he ever does it, and it’s not out of respect for the job.

        “We’re ready to order,” says the woman at the corner nearest him. She’s elderly and has a cane beside her on the seat. Honestly, Birch wouldn’t mind having one, himself. He jots down the orders in his small, company-provided notepad, and saunters away to deliver it to the kitchen.

        The first time Birch was the victim of a hate crime, he was fourteen years old. At that age, he knew he was gay, but he did his best to stifle it – he knew what happened in the family if you were gay. But somebody at school suspected it, and they’d gathered their friends to beat him up inside the bathroom, and he’d been forced to tell his mother he got into a fight.

        He’s been assigned a table at the back of the restaurant. It seats Rome, and who Birch assumes is his family, though none of them look anything alike. Normally, he’d hate to see Rome outside of school. Today, he’s just happy to see a familiar face. Rome has two dads, he notices, and a teenaged sibling or friend he can’t tell the gender of. All look at him, friendly and smiling, but Birch rarely smiles back. “Hey, Four-Eyes.” Rome grins, tapping his fingers on the table. “Fancy seeing you here.”

        He has a look of smugness on his face. Birch hates it, but has to admit the man is hot. “I work here.”

        One of Rome’s fathers looks at him, curious, evidently not knowing they’re familiar with each other. A little too familiar, if you ask Birch. He hands out the menus, already eager for his first break. Birch hates working, but he needs the money. “Can I get your guys something to drink?” He isn’t as irritable today as usual. Maybe it’s the numbness from Gracie’s passing. Maybe that makes it difficult to feel much of anything else. She’d have hated this, but that doesn’t matter now. After taking drink orders, Birch shuffles back to the kitchen, trying to avoid being called on by anyone else. He considered calling in sick today. Staying in would have been a million times better than this. Most people get lonely, staying home all by themselves for long periods of time. Birch can’t relate. He could sit at home alone for weeks and still be content. But he needs to get out, needs to take his mind off things, or just pretend there’s nothing to take his mind off of. This is what he’d normally do.

        At break, he steps outside for a cigarette and a drink of water. He spots Rome, on his phone, and doesn’t stand near him. Though, he doesn’t go out of his way to avoid him, either. He doesn’t have to. Rome approaches, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his workout pants, dragging his sneakers on the ground of the parking lot. Birch isn’t in the mood, but he stays: because hey, maybe he’s a bit curious to know what Rome has to say. “You know,” says the athlete, the hood of sweater pulled over a baseball cap. “I used to hate you.”

        Birch doesn’t care. He takes a drag from his cigarette, blows the smoke into Rome’s face. “I still hate you.” He wonders why Rome is here, anyway, outside speaking to him. Surely he has better things to do. Is he obsessed with Birch or something? It’s warm, and the shift is half over. Work always feels too long.

        “Do you?” Rome steps closer, not at all bothered by the smoke. “I don’t think you do. I think you pretend to, but really there’s something you want from me.” He stands very close. Birch can see a large scar next to his mouth, but doesn’t care what it’s from.

        He takes a step back. “Yeah, I want you to leave me alone; that’s what I want from you.” He doesn’t know why he hates Rome so much. The guy hasn’t done anything to him, but he’s a hateful person and can’t really explain why. Even his relationship with his best friend started with hate. “Can you leave? I have to get back to work soon.”

        Rome smiles. “Come on.” He places an arm on the wall of the restaurant, very close to Birch. “I know you’re attracted to me. I’m not an idiot; I can tell by the way you’re looking at me.” This is stupid. Birch is looking at him like he looks at anyone. “You could walk away, if you wanted to,” Rome jeers, waving his hand through the open space. “But you haven’t, which means obviously you don’t hate me that much." 

         He’s aggravating, and smug, and Birch can’t stand it. But maybe he has a point. Fucking him isn’t terrible, and he’d do it again, but everyone knows sex can mean nothing. “What do you want from me, exactly?” He tries to sound stern, but it doesn’t quite turn out this way. “You’re always bugging me-”

         “Shut up.” Rome leers, his face far too close. Birch could run away, but he doesn’t, and he’s not sure why. It’s certainly unexpected when Rome kisses him, because it comes out of nowhere, and he’s so sure of himself. Goddamn, Rome is so arrogant. Birch can’t even blame his hatred on this. He’s always been into cocky guys.

         He shoves the other boy away. “What the fuck!”

        “Please.” Rome stares at him, still much too close than he should be, and smelling of body spray. “Think about what just happened, and be honest. Did you hate it?”

        Birch wants to say yes. He wants to walk back inside, go back to hating Rome the way he always has. But something’s different. Rome licks his lips, both hands on the wall on either side of Birch. This feels predatory, and poignant. Birch loves feeling like the prey. “No.” He has to admit it, finally, although it’s so strange. Why wouldn’t he hate it? Why is he still out here, when he should be inside waiting tables and getting shitty tips?

        “Yeah, I didn’t think you would.” Rome touches Birch’s cheek; his hand is cold. “You need to stop being so goddamn uptight all the time. Live a little.” He breathes in Birch’s face, their mouths nearly touching. And then, Rome walks away, not looking back, and Birch shivers.