One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 6

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Fírí Parızada eyed the unconscious Zhíno lying neatly on the stone altar, his heels together but the tips of his shoes pointing to the sides. Surely he’d wake up any minute, just like that foreign kid. Or maybe he wouldn’t until Vata slipped him a wake-up drug during her chanting and dog-murdering ceremony. Sleight-of-hand and all that gooseshit.

A bellow resonated throughout the house and, simultaneously, Vata fell to her knees, clutching her head. The old woman gurgled.

“What the plagues are the police doing out there?” Fírí whispered. Are they torturing somebody?

The scream trailed off as Vata pitched forward onto the dirt. Her skull missed the bottom step by centimeters. Her white ponytail flipped forward over the top of her head.

What the plagues happened to her? What did it have to do with the scream?

No matter what, there was no way in Pétíso’s hells that Fírí was going to let the hag open that door. Not when somebody was screaming like that.

She ran the three meters to get between Vata and the door. Fírí crouched down on the wood stairs, observing the small woman from close range. Vata breathed.

Fírí sighed with relief. At least she didn’t have to deal with a dead body.

The old woman moaned low, then started to push herself up.

“What happened?” Fírí demanded in a loud whisper.

Vata shakily got to her knees and turned her dirt-covered, droopy face up to Fírí. “Pí‘oro,” she rasped.

Fírí frowned. “What? Who?” Is Pí‘oro her husband? She’s got to be thinking he’s the tortured one.

“I must. . .” Vata took a gulp of air. “. . . help him.” Her eyes stared to a faraway place, the corners pulled down as if she were scared or about to start crying.

Fírí shook her head, her hair whipping back and forth. “If somebody just got killed in a most horrible way, we got to stay hidden.”

Her voice broken by sobs, Vata cried, “I must help him!”

How does she know it was this Pí‘oro guy? Does she have some psychic connection with him or something? Fírí raised an eyebrow. It would explain her instantaneous response. She tossed her head. Don’t be silly. That sort of thing doesn’t exist.

Vata stood on wobbly legs and took a step toward Fírí. “I must help him,” she repeated, her voice only marginally firmer. “Out of the way, dear.”

Fírí hissed, “Not with the police out there, no! Pí‘oro’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

The old woman staggered closer and reached out to grab Fírí’s sweatshirt sleeve. Fírí pulled her arm away, but the hag held tight, crying, “Move!”

As she waved her arms to break Vata’s grasp, Fírí huffed. This hag was certainly the most stubborn old Vítí-twin she’d ever met.

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