The following is a sample from the novel.

Chapter One

The Client

Adrift in a basket on an ocean of sky, Coriander eyes the fire spewing from a hole in their table and tries to choose between two undesirable endings: burning to death in a hot air balloon or falling a thousand feet onto rocks and cacti. Their craft is at the center of a jewel-toned armada whose bright colors seem even brighter next to the salt-white clouds. As far as last meals go, this feast for the eyes makes a good one—or it would if any of this were real. In actuality there are no balloons, flames, or snow-caked Saguaros here, just thirty tables in a sentient cafe that likes to highjack patrons’ eyesight to serve Arizona Airfield At Sunset alongside the brioche French toast.

Coriander drinks coffee that is blacker than their hair as a girl clambers out of a nearby balloon and skips toward them. Clouds congeal around her legs because the cafe knows children cannot fly, but is itself too young to invent a better lampshade. The girl comes right up to Coriander’s basket, folds her brown arms on its wicker side, and asks, “Do you have more than one person in your head?”

Their stomach drops.

“Don’t be scared,” she says. “My mom’s plural and she always gets two drinks because one of her headmates is a Coffee Person and the other is a Tea Person. I’m a Milkshake Person. What are you?”

There are two cups on Coriander’s table. Equal parts relieved and amused, they answer her question candidly: “Two of us are Coffee People and Mouse loves all things sweet.” 

The comment ignites a private disagreement between the headmates. 

MOUSE: You know I hate honey.

HAM: Dutch, how could you forget throwing up baklava?

DUTCH: I raised a child, Ham. I can’t remember every puke.

Unaware of the conversation unfolding in Coriander’s head, the girl announces, “When I grow up I’m going to be plural, too. My best friends will be my headmates and we’ll live in my body because I’m the best at cartwheels. Watch.” Shells in her hair clatter musically as she does a cartwheel against blue sky. When her hands touch the invisible ground, the cafe panics and fixes Cumulous pompoms to them. As if that makes sense.

One balloon over, a woman recognizes the shell clattering sound and comes running. Her shoes appear to be eagles because the cafe is auditioning a new lampshade.

“Forgive our daughter,” the woman says, as the eagles flap uselessly beneath her feet. “She thinks everybody is her friend.”

Coriander tells her, “We don’t mind.”

She clocks their pronoun and smiles, radiating the warmth plurals feel when they encounter others of their kind in the wild. Then she steers her offspring away and Coriander reaches for a sugar cube.

HAM: Another one, Mouse?

MOUSE: They’re your taste buds.

DUTCH: There’s nothing wrong with Ham’s taste buds.

MOUSE: You’re biased, Dutch. You always wanted spice tolerance.

Pooling their willpower, Ham and Dutch retract Coriander’s hand before it reaches the bowl.

MOUSE: Come on, please?

HAM: We got you cider.

DUTCH: In his defense, drinking the cider first did make the espresso kind of bitter...

HAM: Okay, fine.

Coriander stacks a second sugar cube atop the first and gently swirls their cup, causing the sweet brown island to sink into the coffee as the artificial sun sinks behind mountains. In this part of the world, the real sun sank hours ago, but Cafe Arizona shares a timezone with its namesake. At nearly 7PM local it is only now unfurling the eventide ribbons of pink and purple light, rolling out a silver moon, and scattering stars like confetti. They linger until the virtual sky is choked with glitter, then down their espresso, pull on their coat, and follow a red star to the EXIT because it is time to go to therapy.

Outside all is dark and quiet. They have to increase the light sensitivity on their ocular implants to navigate the greenways, unlit, unpaved avenues that crisscross the city like capillaries. If the real moon is out on this frigid November night, the brick buildings flanking the greenways are blocking its light. More than once, Coriander flinches at a shape made sinister by shadows.

HAM: I know you’re scared of the dark, Mouse, but that’s a potted plant.

MOUSE: I’m not scared! I’m adjusting.

DUTCH: You’ve been with us for three years. How long is this adjustment going to take?

Babies of the Twenty-Fourth Century, Ham and Dutch are accustomed to a world without light pollution, but Mouse, who was born two hundred years earlier, is not. Absolute darkness takes getting used to, as does the fact people are again eating things that come out of animals. Like bee vomit.

Coriander shoves their hands into their pockets and chides themselves for not wearing gloves. After ten minutes in the cold, the electric prickle in their fingers is so intense it reanimates the corpse of a debate about hot air balloons. If you find yourself in a doomed one, what do you do?

HAM: Can you imagine this pricking feeling everywhere? That’s what landing on cacti would feel like.

MOUSE: I’d still jump.

HAM: You can’t be serious.

DUTCH: Ham, consider the source...

Ham does, and when he realizes his mistake he cringes so hard he makes their shared body cringe, too.

MOUSE: I’m lucky enough not to remember what it’s like to burn to death. I’d like to keep it that way.

HAM: Of course. I’m sorry, Mouse.

They dodge a dog-walker and nearly wipe out on a gnarly patch of ice.

DUTCH: Have you picked a fragment to discuss tonight?

MOUSE: Are you talking to me?

DUTCH: Yes.

MOUSE: It’s Ham’s turn.

HAM: No, we did my sweater last week. How about the kitchen sink, Mouse?

Coriander snorts.

MOUSE: No lie could make that fragment happy.

HAM: It’s not about making it happy; it’s about making it whole.

When he was little, Mouse saw something horrible in a kitchen. Now he cannot not remember what it was, not because the details are repressed but because they are physically decaying with his beloved body in an unmarked grave. When Mouse’s and Dutch’s consciousnesses were moved into Ham’s body, memories got fragmented for all three of them. Ham, for instance, can remember setting a sweater on fire but not whose sweater it was or what they did to deserve sartorial arson. Coriander’s therapist helped Ham invent a story to explain his rage, so he could process the feelings and move on. Hoping she can do the same for Mouse and his fear of sinks, Coriander buzzes into her building and takes the lift to eight.

Here ends the first chapter.