Page 9 of Spread Me

Kinsey eyes Mads.

“You can read Weatherman, right? You’ll know when it’s safe for us to go outside?”

She wants to be able to tell her team to leave. She wants to be able to tell them to run.

“Kind of,”

they reply warily.

“Domino has tried to teach me a few times. It mostly just looks like static to me, though. I’ll look at it again when we’re done with … whatever this is.”

They’re next to Kinsey, staring through the wire-reinforced window.

“I don’t understand why you two were in the exam room in the first place, and I really don’t understand why Domino has to stay in there.”

“It’s not like that door locks,”

Kinsey says.

“They can come out whenever they want.”

Mads glances at the layers of fresh duct tape that crisscross the exam room door. Kinsey isn’t sure how much she used. Most of the roll is gone, but maybe there wasn’t that much left to begin with. She couldn’t be sure, that’s what she kept repeating to herself over and over as she tried to make a seal over the door, to cocoon Domino inside with the specimen. She needed to make sure.

They didn’t try to fight her, didn’t try to escape. They just stood there, asking her over and over to tell them what they’d done wrong.

“The thing is,”

Mads says in a voice one might use to try to pacify a loose baboon.

“I don’t see the problem you’re saying you saw.”

“I’m not crazy,”

Kinsey snaps.

“I didn’t say you were crazy.”

“That’s what people say when they think you’re crazy,”

Nkrumah chimes in. She’s standing far from the exam room window, her back pressed to the opposite wall.

“I’m with Mads,”

Jacques says. He’s halfway between Nkrumah and the window. His hands are stuffed into his pockets. Every time he speaks, the smell of wintergreen mouthwash drifts across the little vestibule.

“She’s crazy.”

“I didn’t say she’s crazy,”

Mads says, sharper this time.

“I just said that I don’t see the … the lips.”

“Mouths.”

Kinsey doesn’t look away from Domino. They’re staring out through the window with wet, beseeching eyes, radiating innocence. They’re tricking everyone, Kinsey thinks. It sends waves of fury washing through her.

“They were covered in mouths, Mads. You tell me what medical condition makes that happen, and then I’ll calm down.”

“Psychosis,”

Saskia says mildly.

“Could cause this, I mean.”

“Putting that social work minor to good use,”

Jacques mutters. He always gets a little mean when he’s stressed.

Saskia smiles as if she doesn’t hear the sarcasm in his tone.

“Yes, I am. It’s okay, Kinsey. Lots of people experience hallucinations. You’ve been isolated here with us for so long, and that fever was no joke—nobody would fault you if—”

“I didn’t hallucinate it,”

Kinsey interrupts. She doesn’t add that she never got the fever. They don’t need to know that part.

“I didn’t.”

Saskia shrugs.

“How would you know if you were hallucinating? You’d reality-test by asking people you trust if what you saw was real, right?”

The question sounds genuine. Sincere. That’s how she is—brisk, but earnestly nonjudgmental. Kinsey knows that Saskia genuinely wouldn’t think less of her if this thing with Domino really was all in her head.

And she’s got a point. If Kinsey’s not sure what she’s seeing, she asks her team. That’s always been the case. When she thinks someone might be pissed or depressed, she asks Mads to look at it. When she needs to send a dubious email to corporate headquarters, she turns to Nkrumah. When she isn’t sure if it’s safe outside, she gets Domino’s take.

But this is different. This time, she doesn’t need anyone’s confirmation, because she doesn’t doubt what she saw. Not in the slightest.

“Tell you what,”

Nkrumah offers.

“Let’s take another look. We’ll all look, hard as we can, with absolutely no prior assumptions about what we might see. And if there are no lips—”

“Mouths,”

Kinsey insists.

“Right. Mouths. If there are no mouths, we’ll let Domino out, and we’ll talk things over as a team. Okay?”

Kinsey chews the inside of her lip for a moment before the feel of her lip between her teeth reminds her too much of what she saw under Domino’s shirt. She looks at her team—Mads, giant and reasonable; Jacques, blurry-eyed but loyal; Saskia, anxious but faithful; Nkrumah, self-assured and honest to a fault.

They’re all she has. The world is a hundred miles away, across an expanse of sand that would kill her without noticing she’d ever been alive. If she can’t lean on her team, she’s already done for.

She nods once. “Okay.”

They gather close to her, crowding in around the window. Domino hasn’t moved. Their expression hasn’t changed. That, Kinsey thinks, should be proof enough. Domino is constantly in motion. They always have something to say. But now they’re silent as they watch and wait for everyone else to decide whether or not they’re a monster.

Mads presses closer to her to make room for Saskia. On Kinsey’s other side, Jacques and Nkrumah cram themselves together to look into the exam room window. Mads taps on the glass, and even though Domino was already looking in that direction, their expression sharpens.

“Hey D,”

Mads calls.

“I know this sucks, but it’ll be over soon, okay? Can you just, uh. Sorry about this,”

they add, apparently realizing what they have to ask and how it’s going to sound.

“But can you take your shirt off for us? Or just stop holding the front shut, maybe?”

Kinsey shakes her head. “Off,”

she insists. She doesn’t want them to be able to hide anything.

Domino walks toward the window. They come close, unreasonably close, so close that their breath fogs the glass.

“Kinsey,”

they say softly.

“This is nuts. Just let me out, and we can talk this over. I know I probably came on too strong—”

“Wait, you really made a move on Kinsey?”

Jacques interrupts, sounding more than a little betrayed.

“That’s a wild choice,”

Nkrumah says.

“Like … it’s Kinsey. You don’t—”

Mads cuts her off.

“The shirt, D,”

they say, firmer this time. “Please.”

Domino hesitates. Their grip on the fabric is tight.

“I don’t want to.”

“We shouldn’t make them if they don’t want to,”

Saskia says.

Kinsey slams her palm against the glass. Everyone jumps at the noise. Everyone except Domino.

“I don’t care what they want,”

she hisses.

“I didn’t want to be backed into that exam table. You think the specimen fell down all by itself? I knocked it over while I was trying to get away from them.”

“You didn’t want to get away from me,”

Domino murmurs.

Nkrumah looks across Jacques at the rest of the team.

“What did they say?”

“She can’t hear me,”

Domino says again, even softer this time. Their eyes are locked onto Kinsey’s, their lips barely moving. As she watches, their pupils slowly shrink to pinpoints.

“But you can, can’t you? You know why,”

they add.

“We have a bond. Me and you, Kinsey.”

Kinsey slams her palm against the window again.

“Take the fucking shirt off,”

she yells. Spittle flies from her mouth, flecking the glass in front of her.

Domino’s lips twitch upward at the corners, the faintest ghost of a smile.

“Sure. No problem. I just wanted it to be you who was asking.”

They twitch the fabric apart, letting it fall open to reveal a scant sliver of deep bronze flesh. Kinsey’s heart stutters at the sight. She doesn’t understand her own reaction—can’t understand it—hates it. She doesn’t want Domino. She isn’t attracted to Domino. So why does she feel the urge to run her tongue across that sliver of flesh?

They tug the shirt off one shoulder, coy. They run their finger across the length of one collarbone, nudging the collar of their shirt until it falls off their shoulder. The sleeves of their shirt fall to the crooks of their elbows and they hug it around themself, turn their back and wiggle their shoulders like a burlesque dancer.

Saskia lets out a breathy laugh. Kinsey glances over and sees that Mads is wearing an indulgent smile. All of them think that Domino is taking this ridiculous interrogation with good humor, she realizes. They think their colleague is being a good sport in the face of the boss’s obvious derangement.

She digs her fingernails into the meat of her palms. They’ll see. They have to see.

Finally, after a long striptease, Domino lets their shirt drift to the floor. They stand in front of the exam room window, half-naked, their arms held out, their palms up. They haven’t lost that easy smile, that open gaze. Everything about them radiates innocence.

Kinsey feels Mads freeze beside her. She glances up and sees that their wry smile has vanished, replaced by a perfectly blank expression. She looks back at Domino, then lifts a finger and gives it a grim twirl. “Arms up,”

she says.

“and spin.”

Domino lets their head drop to one side, the perfect picture of bemused exasperation. They turn once, slowly, their hands above their head.

“See anything you like?”

Kinsey glances around at her team again. Saskia’s face has drained of what little color it had. Nkrumah’s lips have vanished, pressed tight into her mouth. Jacques looks like he needs to get to the nearest trash can.

“Thanks, Dom,”

Mads says at last, completely unreadable.

“You can put your shirt back on.”

“And then I can come out?”

Domino asks plaintively.

“We need to talk to Kinsey first,”

Mads replies.

“Get her calmed down, maybe sedated. Then, yes, we’ll take the tape off the door and you can come out.”

Kinsey’s gut twists as she looks up at Mads, searching for an explanation in their face. “But—”

“Come on,”

Mads says firmly, grabbing Kinsey by the elbow and tugging her toward the hallway.

“Let’s get you settled. Team, will you help me with her?”

“Sure thing.”

Nkrumah takes Kinsey’s other elbow.

Jacques and Saskia come with them, Jacques ahead and Saskia behind. Kinsey can hear Saskia murmuring a prayer under her breath. She lets herself be guided away from the exam room, too stunned to fight her team.

“What the fuck,”

she hisses.

“Are you guys for real right now? You didn’t see that?”

“Of course we saw it,”

Mads sighs.

Jacques, walking a step ahead, drops his head into his hands.

“I don’t know what I saw,”

he mumbles.

“I don’t—I don’t think I saw anything.”

Nkrumah reaches out an arm and rubs his back briskly, like she’s trying to restore circulation to his entire spine. “C’mon,”

she says.

“You did so.”

“Yeah, I did,”

he agrees.

“I just wish I didn’t. I—you know how I feel about them, and I don’t want…”

He doesn’t find an end to his sentence.

Saskia keeps praying.

Kinsey could weep with relief. That she isn’t alone—that her team is with her—that Domino didn’t manage to fool anyone.

“So you saw it too. All of you. It’s not just me.”

She knows she’s saying the same thing over and over again, but she can’t seem to stop. Nobody answers her until after they’ve made their way down the hall and into the canteen, in the center spoke of the wedge. The second they walk into the canteen, Mads and Nkrumah release Kinsey’s elbows. She wheels around on them. “Say it,”

she says desperately.

“Say you saw it.”

“They weren’t mouths,”

Nkrumah points out.

Jacques groans.

“Worse than mouths, I think. Eyes are worse than mouths.”

Mads shakes their head.

“Not eyes,”

they say. They don’t sound shaken at all—but then again, they never do.

“Just eyelids.”

That’s what had been under Domino’s shirt. Not on their chest—that was normal again, a smooth expanse of skin slashed by dark scars below each nipple, a scattering of freckles and hair running down the centerline of their sternum. There was no sign that there had ever been a cluster of open, inviting mouths there. For a moment, Kinsey had worried that Saskia had been right—that it had all been a hallucination.

But then Domino had let their shirt drop, and Kinsey had felt the terrible weight of certainty land in her stomach. There was their belly—a sweet curve of soft skin, usually broken only by their navel and the glint of the jeweled piercing they wore in it.

But now the belly ring was gone, replaced by a perfectly formed, long-lashed eyelid.

There were two more navels flanking the original. All three were shuttered by identical eyelids. As Kinsey had watched, they’d winked slowly, one by one. When Domino had raised their arms, they’d revealed smaller ones, follicular and close-clustered. Each underarm was a lotus pod of empty eyelashed sockets.

Kinsey had stared into those eyes, and she had felt it. She didn’t know how, but she was certain.

They’d been staring right back at her.