• "Betty --"

    "Don't say it," Betty repeats through her teeth, a bit more fiercely than last time. "I'm telling you."

    "I just feel --"

    "Yeah. I know. But I still don't want to talk about it."

    Isabella takes a deep breath and sighs. "I still don't understand --" She cuts her sentence short and braces herself for an interjection. When it doesn't happen, she rebuilds her composure and continues. "-- I don't understand why you wanted to leave so soon. They would have let you rest in that nice hospital bed for a few more days if you asked nicely, I bet."

    "I didn't see the point," Betty replies. "Doesn't really matter now, does it? I'm going to be sitting damn near everywhere now, because I don't really have a choice."

    "Well, I don't know about that." Isabella gently pulls back on the handles of Betty's wheelchair, lifting up the front so it clears the curb on the other side of the street. The rear wheels follow soon after, with some struggle. "There must be some technology soon that'll fix your legs good as new! You'll be able to walk again just fine. Don't worry."

    "I'm happy you can find it in you to be so optimistic," Betty mutters. "I hope you'll understand if I don't feel the same way. Maybe it's because I'm not high enough off the ground to have my head in the clouds, like you are."

    Isabella sighs again. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to look on the bright side a little bit. I don't think I need to tell you how much better off you are than that...person, about whom you'd rather I not talk."

    "I disagree." Betty looks down at the assault rifle in her hands. "I think I'd rather be dead, myself."

    "Oh!" A quiet sob escapes Isabella. She grips the handles tightly and leans forward a little, looking down at the ground. "Please don't say that."

    "You're right." Betty nods. "I'm sorry. I don't like how that sounds either. I'd rather not hear myself say it."

    The two young women stroll along the tarmac path in between the two halves, the hill half and the field half, of Stone Park. A school bus turns off West Union Street and creeps its way up Cherry Street, throwing Betty and Isabella in shadow for just a second as it blocks off the afternoon sun. One might wonder, being present at this location at both times it has appeared before us, if Dean and Gracie were swept away following the end of their time to shine, for Betty and Isabella to appear right afterward. Only time separates the days.

    "I'm really happy you elected to see me out of the hospital, Bella," Betty announces, after some silence. "I can't very well roll myself along while I'm holding this in my hands."

    "What are you talking about?" asks Isabella. "Are you still talking about that rifle? Oh, God." She looks to her right, at the silhouettes of the trees on the hill, and then returns to facing forward, down at the back of Betty's head. "There is no rifle. You don't have a rifle."

    "I do have a rifle," Betty protests. "And I'm going to shoot the next bomber that walks my way. I'm serious. I won't be fooled again."

    "Oh, Betty." Isabella takes a deep breath and exhales. "Come on. Let's just sit here for a little while, okay? I'll show you there are no bombers headed our way."

    "You mean at that bench over there?" asks Betty. She takes her hand off the stock and points at a bench about five meters ahead of them, on the right side of the path. "No. That won't do. We need a better vantage point."

    "Vantage point?" asks Isabella. Her eyes run a line up the hill, into the trees. "You're not --"

    "I mean it," Betty replies. "I would really like it if you could push me up that hill. There's a rock --"

    "Yes," sighs Isabella. "I know all about that rock. But I'm not pushing you up this hill. I'm not strong enough for that." She walks in a semi-circle around Betty, rotating her towards the direction from which they had come, and starts to push her back towards the intersection of Cherry and Park. "We're going around. I'll take you along Cherry Street and then we'll cut over to the rock when we get there. At least on the road there will be a paved surface and no rocks to power over."

    "Fine, fine." Betty yawns and stretches. "I'm in no hurry. We have a little time left before the kids start flooding this area anyway."

    A thought arrives in Isabella's head, and her lips bid each other farewell for the time being, so that they may let the thought escape. But she balks. Before long her lips are back in each other's company, agreeing wholeheartedly that they would rather just forget they were ever apart and be happy that whatever time they were apart is now over.

    "How's Andrea?" Betty asks. "I hope she's not hurt too badly."

    "Is that sarcasm?"

    "You bet it is." Betty's hands return to the stock and pistol grip. "She's a witch for what she did to me. I hope she burns in Hell."

    "With the fire of your contempt," Isabella replies, "I don't think she'd need to go to Hell."

    "Well, thank you, Bella." Betty looks down the iron sights, at a car which has pulled up to the stop sign at the intersection ahead of them. "I'll take that as a compliment. Next time she sees me she better drop to her knees like she's giving one of those poor boys head. I'll make her suck my gun barrel."

    "That's what she'd get for screwing with you, huh?"

    "Well, do you think that's too good?" Betty turns around and looks up at Isabella, as best as she can, at least, without straining her neck too much. "Maybe I'd do better to keep her alive. But still. I want her to feel every bit of pain right back, that she gave me."

    "That's a lot of pain, I take it." Isabella bites her bottom lip as she gently lowers the back wheels off the edge of the curb and onto the road surface. "You may never walk again. Or bear children."

    "That's right." Betty nods gently. "And Andrea can have all the children she damn well pleases. No shortage of men who'd want that."

    "Well," says Isabella, "you've got a point there." Her lips tingle with anxiety, but stand rigid nonetheless. "I can see how you'd be really angry about that. Did you want to have children someday?"

    "Not really." Betty follows the car with her aim, as it takes a right and heads down Cherry Street, crossing over the railroad tracks and vanishing behind a building and some more trees. "But now that it's like I couldn't even if I did want to some day, it makes me sad."

    "Did you want to have children with Alex?" asks Isabella. "Before he died?"

    "In all honesty," Betty says, "I guess I didn't want all that much out of Alex after all. I had my head in the clouds back then." She looks over her shoulder at Isabella. "Could have been both of us walking here in the clouds, huh?"

    "I guess so," mutters Isabella, trying her hardest to avoid the breaking of her voice. "So you don't love him very much now?"

    "I don't think I liked him very much while he was alive. And if I did, which I didn't, then I don't think he would deserve it. He wasn't very nice, and he kept forgetting to do things with me. I remember this one time a long way back, the night before he exploded, I think. We were supposed to go on this date, at the Water Hazard. But he never showed up. Calvin showed up instead."

    "Calvin?" asks Isabella, suddenly perking up. "What was he doing there?"

    "Your guess is as good as mine," Betty responds. "Watch the road."

    A van bears down on Betty's wheelchair from the left, over the top of the hill, and Isabella, with a gasp, jerks the handles back, saving her from that potential for certain doom to occur. The van slows down as it approaches the intersection with Park Street and throws on its right blinker, turning onto Park Street and continuing on down that road. Indifference, left in the wake of the van, enshrouds Betty and Isabella, but neither party feels particularly pressed to accept it. The message is in vain.

    "Oh, God," Isabella gasps. "Thank you! Oh, my God. I could have gotten you run over just then."

    "Aww." Betty looks over her shoulder in an attempt to find the van. This, too, is in vain. "You responded too quickly. I sure could have gotten run over."

    "Betty!" Isabella's throat begins to tingle and quiver. "Please! Please don't talk like that."

    "All right, all right." Betty sighs. "But if you'd like my guess, as to why Calvin was there, well, I think he might have been trying to get me not to think so badly about Alex. They really were good friends."

    "I guess you could say that," Isabella says, nodding. "You think he might have liked you or something?"

    "Really?" Betty asks. "No, I don't think so. I don't think he liked me at all. If he liked me he would have told me to forget all about Alex and come home with him for something that I imagine wouldn't be graham crackers and episodes of Family Guy."

    "Did he play golf with you?"

    "He did, actually! He did pretty well, also." Betty sighs. "He didn't seem very into it, though. Maybe he did want action after all, but he couldn't bring himself to ask me."

    Isabella blushes and looks down at the pavement as she continues to push Betty up the hill. "Betty."

    "What's wrong?" asks Betty.

    "I'm just thinking."

    "Do you like Calvin?"

    "Well --" Isabella takes a deep breath and exhales. "I don't know if I really like Calvin. I haven't seen him since a little while before Number Two. He walked up those stairs about half a minute before Alex did that morning. But I know that if a guy came to comfort me while I was upset about my date not showing up, I might feel a little nice inside, thinking someone cared like that."

    "Even if he wanted you in bed?"

    Isabella gasps.

    "Forget I said anything. You can turn off here. We're at the top of the hill." Betty stretches again. "I've gone off on a tangent. I'm sorry. Suffice it to say I'm not so sure about Alex now."

    "Well," mutters Isabella, "I guess you have all the time in the world to think about that now, don't you?"

    "Yeah," Betty replies. "I hope I decide I don't like him at all in the end. Because if I decide I do like him, I'm s**t out of luck."

    "That you are."

    Isabella gently steers Betty off the pavement, panting a little as her effort towards sustaining forward movement up the hill becomes effort towards sustaining forward movement through the bumps and dips in the ground. At long last, she approaches the spot Betty pointed out to her earlier, and she sighs in relief.

    "May I let go of you?" asks Isabella. "I'd really like to sit down. My legs are killing me."

    "Sure!" says Betty. "If you want me to zoom down the hill and run into a tree. Not that I'd feel it too much. I'm enough of a cripple."

    Isabella sighs. "Fine. But I'm still sitting down."

    "Oh, okay." Betty rolls her eyes. "I'll just take you with me, then."

    Isabella sits down next to Betty. "We're not even close to a decline. It's all level around here. I think you'll be just fine."

    "Well, if you say so." Betty raises her rifle again and looks through the sights, down at the field. She notices the bench down below, the one Isabella had suggested to her earlier, and snickers.

    "Why are we looking for bombers here?" asks Isabella. "Do you really think anybody will come around here again like what happened with Dean earlier?"

    "What happened with Dean?" asks Betty. "Not him too!"

    "Forget I said anything," Isabella replies, exasperated. "Something happened."

    "Well, I won't push it out of you," Betty says. "I don't care all that much." The index finger on her right hand rubs the trigger guard. "Stay alert. We're not alone anymore."

    "Great," mutters Isabella. She looks through the trees at the gazebo at the far end of the field, at the intersection of Summer and Linden. "More kids."

    But somehow, just after saying it, back when she hadn't meant it with a whole lot of enthusiasm, Isabella gains enthusiasm. There is a certain raspberry color poking through in between the beams of the gazebo, slowly making its way down Summer, on the sidewalk. Of all the kids which could have walked onto the scene, this was a kid she never thought would look so whole after Number Three. In fact, now that she has seen this kid, that Number Three even happened is thrust into question.

    "Gracie!" she cries.

    "Gracie?" asks Betty. "What are -- Who --"

    Gracie continues to walk, not even looking up from the concrete. Isabella stands up and cups her hands around her mouth. "Grace!"

    "Where is she?" asks Betty. "Where are you looking?"

    "Right there," Isabella says. She points at the sidewalk past the far edge of the field. "Take a look. There she is, in the flesh."

    "Well, I think she's in a lot more than just flesh," says Betty. "Not much more, though. My God. How ******** stupid can you get? Does she have any idea how cold it is out here? She'll catch her death."

    "Dear Lord, that girl is bugging the heck out of me," mutters Isabella. Then, another yell: "Gracie! Wait up!"

    "Where do you think you're going?" asks Betty. "I need someone to move me around places."

    Isabella stops in place, nearly tripping and falling head over heels down the slope. She looks back at Betty and sighs. "Yeah, you're right. I made a promise." She turns back and takes a step, but looks over her shoulder right afterwards, hoping for a last glimpse of Gracie. "She really bugs me, though."

    "Stupid. Then don't call her name! That'll get her attention. Why would you want to get her attention if she bugs you?"

    "That's it exactly." Isabella wipes her eyes. "That's why I want her attention."

    Betty looks down and shakes her head. "I don't get humans." She looks at Gracie through her sights as she continues to walk past several more houses, before losing her once she reaches the basketball court and runs into a whole crowd of individuals walking just the other way. "Hmm. Hey, Bella. Why is she so important to you? Doesn't seem like too many of your friends down there think the same. They just shrug her off."

    Isabella looks over to where she guesses Betty is pointing her imaginary rifle. "Those aren't my friends. I don't even know them. They look really young. I don't even think they understand this whole mess like we do."

    "And what of this mess do you understand?" asks Betty. "Just wondering."

    "Well, the explosions, of course. Our friends are dying on us." She trails off and spends a few seconds lingering in silence. Then: "Or I thought they were dying on us."

    "Who?" asks Betty. "That Gracie girl?"

    "Yeah."

    "Oh," Betty whispers. "I see."

    Isabella sighs and sits back down, next to Betty. "Well, there you go. There's your bomber. Go on ahead and shoot her, if you can find her. I'll just turn my head and close my eyes, I guess."

    "No," says Betty. "I couldn't shoot her. She's not a bomber."

    Isabella looks up at Betty. "What do you mean?"

    "She's not wearing a vest. She's no danger to myself or to others. Or to herself." Betty finally looks away from her iron sights and lays her rifle in her lap. "Not now, anyway. What makes you say otherwise?"

    "Well --" Isabella takes a deep breath. "What I thought had happened, was a little while before now --"

    "Oh," says Betty. "A story, huh? I've heard enough stories about that damned thing. I thought you'd say something like, oh, well, she just seems like the type, because it's always the quiet ones, or something. I've heard that, too, but at least it would be better than a story. I'm sorry." Betty reaches over and pats Isabella on the shoulder. "That wasn't very nice of me, was it. You can keep talking if you feel so inclined."

    "No," mutters Isabella. "I think I'll be just fine."

    "I'm happy to hear it."

    "Are we done here?" asks Isabella, her head still in her hands. "You were looking for bombers, and the one we happen to find turns out to be completely harmless, and now you think I'm crazy or something because I believed this far-fetched story that I was obviously too naive to reject. Maybe we can just leave it at that, you know?"

    "You're right," says Betty. "There's nobody here worthy of my bullets anyway. I'd like some ice cream. How about you?"

    "Ice cream sounds absolutely wonderful right now." Isabella makes it to her feet with a grunt, and grabs onto the handles of Betty's wheelchair. "Perhaps you'd like to push yourself along, now that your gun isn't going to do anything."

    Betty shakes her head. "You never know what kinds of people drive those ice cream trucks. Or what they put in that ice cream. I saw this episode of Spongebob Squarepants in the hospital while I was lying in bed, and Squidward bought a pie from these pirates, and they had a pirate ship underwater, and it moved! That was crazy, I know. But the pie turned out to be a bomb, and when Squidward's boss, the crab, tried to eat a piece, there was a giant hole in his wall all of a sudden and they were outside all charred and blackened. I don't want that to happen to me and my ice cream."

    "Woah!" Isabella stares at Betty in disbelief. "What brought this on? You're going to be wary of explosives in food because of what you saw in a cartoon?"

    "I don't give if it came from a cartoon," Betty replies. "Somebody had to think it up for it to show up in a cartoon, didn't they? Who is to say another person couldn't have thought of the same thing and put it into practice? I need to be wary of them. They're worse than bombers. They distribute the bombs. All the explosions with none of the self-harm. I bet you they don't lose a wink of sleep over it either."

    Isabella sighs. "You know what? You're absolutely right. You're Little Miss Right today. Let's buy you your ice cream to celebrate your triumph over my ignorance." She turns Betty around and pushes her back onto Cherry Street, going down the other side of the hill, towards the intersection with Summer Street. "I'll take you into the Rite-Aid on the corner and you can judge for your own self whether or not you're going to explode from ice cream."

    "I'd really like that." Betty smiles. "You're so nice."

    "I try to be," Isabella mutters. "I try."

    "Can I ask you one more question, though?" asks Betty. "Just one more. I promise I'll be quiet after that."

    "Okay," says Isabella with a sigh. "What is it?"

    The playground comes into view, finally poking out from behind the trees that stand all along the hill. At first look, not a soul is there. All the children walking down the sidewalk avoid it, crossing over to the other side of the street upon reaching it, or just plain turning around and walking back the way they came. One or two look towards it with a strange sort of reverence, like this is something sacred which needs to be respected. Little pieces of caution tape litter the ground, spread among the wood chips, color desaturated, barely noticeable.

    "Why did you bother to come and get me?" asks Betty. "We barely knew each other before now. Seems like it took this whole catastrophe for us to happen upon each other."

    "I volunteered," replies Isabella, suddenly feeling her fatigue leave her. "I have a friend whose mother looked over you while you were in the hospital. She was one of the nurses on the unit that took care of you. When I heard you were due to be well soon, I elected to see you out the door."

    "But why?" asks Betty. "You had no obligation. Why would you do something like that for someone you didn't care about?"

    "I do care about you." Isabella looks both ways, and then pushes Betty along the crosswalk at the end of Summer. "I cried a whole lot about you. I thought you'd have been dead, for sure. But you survived. Miraculously, you survived. I don't know how, but I'm not about to complain. You're back with us, and you have another chance at life." She sighs. "Even if you aren't too enthusiastic about it. I'm sure you want to die still, right?"

    "Maybe," whispers Betty. "Maybe."

    As she pushes Betty along the sidewalk on the other side of Summer, around the bend and towards West Union Street, Isabella looks left one last time, past the cars parked in the lot in front of the Rite-Aid. She sees Gracie sitting on one of the swings, motionless, her feet sliding against the dirt, her eyes boring holes in her lap. Her eyes widen as she slows to a stop.

    "What's wrong?" asks Betty.

    "Nothing," mutters Isabella. "Nothing is wrong. I'm just being silly again."

    "You're silly a whole lot, I've noticed." Betty stretches again. "We need more silly people like you. Especially nowadays."