Page 26 of You Weren’t Meant to Be Human

Eighteen

Without a phone, Crane and Stagger’s learning rudimentary ASL project has disintegrated into an exercise in frustration and guesswork.

The two of them sit at the folding table that makes up the entirety of their dining room, Stagger with his chin in his hand as Crane’s pregnancy brain refuses to let him recall the sign for P or Q .

Stagger taps the notepad between them. The motion to give up and ask for help. Crane refuses.

Wash County does have a library—it’s a tiny building with terrible hours and a struggling selection of materials—but Crane is not about to ask Levi to swing by and check if they have an ASL textbook.

He could ask Tammy the next time she comes around, but the more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t want her to do that either.

If Levi or Tammy knew he was working on this, there’s the chance they’ll insist on getting involved, or his refusal to communicate will become a directed insult.

Yes, I’m finding ways to communicate—but not with YOU.

Crane racks his brain for the shape of the letters and comes up with nothing. Lacking a way to look up new words, they’ll have to rely on finger spelling, and that’s going to be difficult when he can’t recall a bunch of signs on a good day.

He writes P, Q on the notepad. Stagger shows him how to hold his hands. Crane is pissed Stagger has a better memory than he does.

Levi comes home with dinner, consisting of two pizza boxes balanced on one arm, and a stranger.

The stranger’s name is Irene. She’s a round-faced woman with broad shoulders and heavy boots, a drawl to her words somewhere between deep Southern and high northern Appalachian that he discovers when she laughs and says, “Your place looks like shit.”

Crane turns over the notepad he and Stagger have been using. Stagger pulls the neck gaiter over his nose.

“Tell me about it,” Levi mutters, depositing the pizza onto the coffee table.

The boxes are generic, no brand name on them, which means they’re from the run-down restaurant on Main Street with no concept of portion control.

Crane loves the place but refuses to go.

Too close to the apartment, too many people who might strike up a conversation.

Levi says, “You want a beer or what? Crane, come eat.”

As hungry as he is, and as good as that food smells, Crane does not want to—because hey, who is this person and why the fuck is she in his house; it’s setting off his nervous system and making him jittery.

But he’s not about to argue with Levi. Irene regards Crane curiously as he plods to the living room and opens the box of plain cheese clearly intended for him.

If Levi was a better partner, he’d have known to ask for light sauce, but if he was a better partner they wouldn’t be here, so Crane can’t have everything. He puts two slices onto a paper plate and sulks back to the folding table.

“And who are you?” Irene calls after him.

Levi returns from the kitchen with two beers between his fingers. “That’s Crane. Told you about him.”

Irene accepts her bottle with a grin and opens her bottle on the side of the coffee table, lid pinging. The bite on her wrist is still irritated.

“He can’t answer me himself?” she says.

“He’s a mute.”

“Huh.” She takes a drink, considering this. Her eyes burn the back of Crane’s neck. “Didn’t take you for gay.”

“Pussy is pussy.”

Irene laughs. It doesn’t put Crane off his food, he’s too hungry for that, but it almost does the trick. He forces himself to take a bite, then peels off the cheese to scrape off the sauce with a napkin. There’s tomato chunks. Unacceptable.

Levi and Irene shoot the shit as Crane muddles through his food.

Apparently, Irene is an ex-con who recently got out of prison for second-degree murder.

She stepped out of state custody to find that her family had moved away; her personal effects, when returned to her by the guards, consisted of two hundred dollars, a bus ticket to a city she’d never been to, and an outfit that didn’t fit her anymore.

She’s good with computers, she explains, better than good, but it’s not like she could get a job anywhere with her record, not on such short notice and with no good clothes for an interview.

She was angry. She thought she might kill someone else, and on purpose this time.

She was good at it. She wanted to. She almost did.

Thank god for the swarm, right. For the hive that took her in. She was wound up and finally had a direction in which to pounce.

“Where’d you end up?” Levi asks.

“Cross Keys. Quiet. Not much going for it. We’re holed up in a garage, though, which I don’t hate.

” Irene leans across the coffee table to grab a slice of the other pizza, which is laden with mushrooms and peppers and onion and a bunch of other unpalatable extras.

“Jed’s showing me the basics. It’s no coding boot camp, but I think I’m figuring it out fine. ”

“Better than a gas station.”

“No kidding.” She takes a bite and says around said bite, “Where are y’all hiding your workshop?”

Levi grunts like he does when he’s confused but doesn’t want to come off that way. “Workshop?”

“Yeah. The—” Crane imagines she’s making some gesture with her hands. “Don’t think it’s called a workshop. Hive mother just says it’s their room. But where you do all your, you know, cuttin’ up and sewin’ together.”

Crane has no idea what she’s talking about, but Stagger can’t take his eyes off this woman.

“Oh, that shit? Yeah, no, we don’t got one of those. Closest one’s in McDowell.”

Crane signs, You okay?

Stagger nods. It’s not convincing.

Irene says, “You ever hear all that mess about the sun?”

“Every damn day.”

“What are they on about?”

“Don’t matter.”

They finish their dinner, getting drunker than they should, Irene poking fun at Levi’s terrible taste in alcohol and dropping the word faggot too hard.

Levi doesn’t find it funny. Crane can see it on his face—he can’t wait for her to get the fuck out of town.

Still, when she leaves, Levi leaves with her anyway.