I have to pee, said Elsie-Anne.
Soon as we’ve found your brother, Annie, said Kellogg. He’s got to be here.
Real bad, Dad.
This is no one’s fault, okay? Sometimes stuff just happens.
Pearl blew her nose, tucked the tissue into her sleeve. The line edged forward, the Pooles took a half step into the mall.
Day was breaking over the city. Honey-coloured blades of light sliced between the skyscrapers, the streets flushed pink, the pigeons were up and clucking. More people joined the line. The Pooles moved into the Galleria, the doors closed, and everything outside was gone.
Here we go, said Kellogg. Closer and closer. Gip’s going to be so happy to see us!
The mall smelled of nothing. The air was stagnant, the lighting jaundiced. The N — S queue snaked in a slow trudge by Citysports and Bargain Zoom and Horizon Systems and other shops of various merchandise and services, Kellogg whistling tunelessly and Pearl groggy and distant while Elsie-Anne cupped her crotch.
From each quadrant of the mall four such queues (A — G on the north side, H — M to the east, T — Z west) converged in the Galleria’s foodcourt, where a glass ceiling admitted a crosshatched quadrilateral of daylight. Here at four desks sat Helpers, each with a Residents’ Control registry open before him. By the time the Pooles were a dozen spots from the N — S desk, the morning sun gleamed merrily down into the mall and Elsie-Anne had buckled into a pelvic-focused hunch, knees locked, purse dangling off one shoulder, head bobbing to some inaudible, mictural rhythm.
From the middle of the foodcourt, escalators cycled in opposing ellipses, hypnotic to watch. Pearl watched. The foodcourt was a grid of empty tables and chairs. The unattended restaurants wore slatted masks. Security cameras shot the scene from domed bulbs in the ceiling. No one was eating. No one was shopping. The Galleria, normally packed on Super Saver Sundays, had been repurposed into what some agitated parents had started calling the Kiddie Fuggin Jail.
With each set of legal guardians or worried spouses moving to the front of the line to ask after their child or partner the Pooles inched closer. After rummaging through his ledger the N — S clerk might say, Yes, we’ve got him/her, at which point two Helpers took off up the escalator and returned minutes later with an exhausted-looking detainee (sometimes two, even three), who were reunited with their family and ushered from the mall — where? Somewhere, with purpose.
Occasionally the reply was: No, sorry, maybe try again later. At this the searchers would either slink away defeated, or stand unmoving with a look of incredulity, or fly into a rage that prompted NFLM interventions: the upset party was escorted down the hall to a special office from which they’d emerge ten minutes later looking not unlike reprimanded children themselves.
Dad, said Elsie-Anne, tugging on Kellogg’s sleeve, I really have to pee.
Upstairs, said Kellogg, that’s where Gip’ll be. See, Pearly?
From the second-floor mezzanine a pair of Helpers observed the proceedings below.
Check it out, guys, we’re moving again. Only one family before us!
A fax machine propped beside the desk came to life, a sheet of paper curled out, lifted, and flapped down upon a pile of ignored memos. A flustered pair of men stormed past, one muttered, Well where the fug else do you think she’d be then? and the clerk called, Next, and the Pooles were up.
Hiya, said Kellogg, and in his friendliest voice explained who they were looking for.
The Helper leafing through the registry paused, inspected Kellogg, scrubbed at his moustache with a knuckle. Come again? You mean the kid who was onstage?
That’s our boy! As you can probably imagine we can’t wait to see him. Quite a star, must have been flummoxed by all the attention. .
The clerk — Reed, said his nametag — eyed Kellogg, forehead scrunched into a show of deliberation. Hang on, he said, and chair-rolled over to a man in an identical moustache kicking unread faxes into a pile. He whispered in this person’s ear, pointed at Kellogg, and the second man waved the Pooles around the desk.
See, Pearly, said Kellogg. These people are reasonable.
Where are your permits? said the second helper — Walters.
See, that’s the problem, he’s got them, said Kellogg. My son, I mean. They’re in his knapsack. Which he might still have! But if he’s here —
Dad? whined Elsie-Anne, and Kellogg told her, Shush.
This your daughter?
Gip Poole’s our son, Kellogg said. He’s the one we’re looking for. But you might have him as Bode. Or Boole, was it, Pearly?
Goode, said Pearl, I think.
What are you talking about, said Walters, crossing his arms.
Reed crossed his arms too.
You guys messed up the permits, said Pearl, and Kellogg leapt in: An easy mistake!
Walters closed the registry. We don’t have him. If we did, we’d know.
We’re also looking for him, said Reed. Your son.
Kellogg cocked his head. Oh?
I have to pee, said Elsie-Anne. Really bad.
You always have to pee, said Kellogg. She always has to pee, he told the Helpers.
Where do you live? said Walters.
They’re not residents, confirmed Reed.
My wife is! Kellogg nudged Pearl. Tell them.
I was born here, she said.
Walters nodded. And your husband? And your child?
We live out of town now.
We’re making arrangements, said Walters, for nonresidents to leave.
But our son, said Kellogg, is still here. We can’t leave!
Well your wife can stay, said Reed. But you and your daughter, without permits —
Do I have to stay? said Pearl.
Of course, said Walters, grinning nicotine-stained teeth. You’re a resident.
Or were, said Reed. And I’d hardly say have to!
Kellogg swatted his daughter’s hand away. Annie, quit tugging my sleeve, okay? We’ll take you to the bathroom in a minute. Can’t you talk to Familiar? How’s he doing?
He’s gone, said Elsie-Anne, for now. Dad, I have to pee.
Oh, said Kellogg. Did Familiar go back to Viperville?
Elsie-Anne’s face contorted, panicked and pained.
Sir, said Reed, we can’t help you.
Our son needs his meds, said Kellogg weakly.
What kind of meds?
The type that without them he’ll definitely have an Episode!
From Elsie-Anne: a feeble whinny. Then she froze. Wetness bloomed upon the front of her dress. Her expression was conflicted: horror, shame, relief. The stain spread, pee streamed down her legs and puddled around her shoes. No one moved — not her parents, not the Helpers — and the sound was gentle, like distant windchimes, the odour sharp and sour amid the non-smell of the airconditioned mall.
GREGORY ETERNITY and Isabella are busy assembling an army — a lot of work! — from the roof of the Galleria. The streets below are full of people cheering and putting their weapons in the air like they don’t care about anything, except fighting for everything they believe in probably.
Something’s coming, bawls Gregory Eternity in a voice that echoes the fire burning inside the spirit of every man, woman, child, and cat in the whole city.
Something alien, supplements Isabella additionally. Something that thinks it’s going to take our city!
Boo, boos the crowd.
Are you with me? To stop it? inquisitively howls Gregory Eternity.