Work Text:
Mrs. Silk doesn’t like Canada, and everyone on the Moist Talkers knows it. She drops York off before pre-season training with a plastic, placid look on her face, perfectly polite and empty. Her skin is a warm, sun-kissed brown, and she looks out of place in the chilly air with her long dark hair and too-thin coat. Ziwa Mueller is helping unpack the car, and when York steps out, they almost do a double take.
He’s the spitting image of his mother, from the curve of his nose to the matching grey at both their temples to the way York raises a brow and takes in the scenery. He’s fresh off the PODs, and Ziwa has to admit that he looks absolutely terrible. His left arm is covered in bandages, and there are a few on his face, which don’t quite cover the deep purple bruise beneath his eye or the way that the gauze is raised, bumpy, covering a texture they can only imagine. Ziwa hasn’t seen any of the former PODs up close, but now they have to fight back a shudder.
“Welcome to Canada, York,” Ziwa says, holding out a hand. The kid’s tall, probably clearing six feet, and awkward looking, still growing into his own weight. York looks at them with bloodshot eyes— no, Ziwa realizes, not bloodshot. There’s red seeping out of his pupils as the brown fades back in.
York ignores the hand. “Thanks.”
So that’s how this is going to be. Ziwa steels themself for an uncooperative player with a bad attitude. Mrs Silk nudges York on his good shoulder and says something quietly, under her breath. York rolls his eyes. Ziwa watches the pair of them go back and forth, ping pong.
“Thanks for helping us unpack,” York says sullenly, out of the blue, and heaves a backpack out of the backseat. Ziwa figures they got a pretty good end of that deal.
“Sure thing.”
Mrs. Silk looks displeased, for lack of a better word. Honestly, she doesn’t look any particular way, but she doesn’t look happy. Her arms are folded, which could be a continued scolding towards York’s behavior, but by the way her eyes scan the stadium behind them, it might just be Canada that’s giving her trouble.
Ziwa gets it, kind of. The whole PODs thing was tough for everyone, and they can’t imagine being a parent whose kid gets stuck in a peanut shell and then comes out eight year older and also evil, and then disappears for another year, and honestly, Ziwa can’t imagine being a parent so the rest of that is just off the table. Point is, Ziwa can understand not loving the place where Mrs. Silk is going to have to let her son stay for most of a season, especially after that messy divorce with Nagomi Mcdaniel that made too many tabloids.
Her mouth is tight when she says, “York, call me if you need anything.”
“Yeah, Mom, I will.” He sounds tired. So does she.
“I love you,” Mrs. Silk says, and leans in for a hug. York hugs back with his free arm, and Ziwa watches him tense as Mrs. Silk brushes his bandaged shoulder. It’s sweet, the way that they try for each other, him pretending to be unbothered by the move, her acting as if she’s happy for him, the both of them devastated for the same reason, or different reasons, or both.
“Alright, kid,” Ziwa says as Mrs. Silk drives the rental car away. “You ready to meet the team?”
“I’m not a kid,” York says. There is a certain look in his eyes as they glance up at him, the sickly red almost pooling towards the bottom of his sclera, the shadows against the bruise, and Ziwa believes him.
On Day 87 of Season 14, the blood money pays double. It's the top of the seventh. York is in the outfield with the rest of them, making a face when Chorby Short hits a single with that dumb, smug look on her face, and Jesús catches him, and laughs. Jesús is too busy making fun of York to field Tiana’s hit, which also turns into a single, and then Ziwa is laughing fun of them both, halfheartedly ushering their attention towards the game.
It’s the top of the seventh and Greer throws a ball. It's the top of the seventh and Oscar Dollie strikes one, swinging. It’s the top of the seventh and York—
York is gone.
Jesús immediately starts yelling and the game grinds to one of its few, temporary halts. “York,” they’re saying, like it’ll bring him back. “York! Shit, man, come on, fuck—”
Ziwa is thinking about Ruby Tuesday. Ziwa is thinking about Tony, about Kiki, about Workman. Ziwa is thinking about the headlines. Ziwa is thinking, gods, what are we going to tell his mom?
Fish is shouting, “Fucking try me! For fuck’s sake, pick on someone your own size, you want a challenge, try me! Try me!” There’s guilt in the goading that Ziwa will never understand. Their life may be in danger every time the sky darkens, but at least they’re not a fire eater.
The umps are already ushering the new kid onto the field. They’re not quite human, and there’s an odd blue quality to their skin that makes Ziwa squint. They’re wearing a big, puffy down coat, and their hair is thin. It blows wildly in the wind, strangely plastic, and they flip up their hood to prevent it from sticking straight up. They’re already wearing a Talkers uniform beneath the jacket, and as they look around the field with too many blinking eyes, Ziwa can see thin cracks bleeding gold across their face, thicker in some places than others.
Rogue Umpire incinerated York Silk, booms the speakers. Replaced by Lucien Patchwork.
Play resumes. Just like that.
The Magic win, 5-0. Greer is just staring, shivering from the pitcher’s mound, but after Washer Barajas’ double, the whole stadium seems shell-shocked, unable to process what’s just happened. At the bottom of the ninth, the umpires respond to Fish’s anger, and target them in the outfield. Ziwa is guiltily relieved that it’s Fish, that they haven’t lost two teammates in the same game.
The Moist Talkers huddle in their dugout when the game is called, barely speaking. Jesús looks sick. Ziwa can’t blame him. The silence is painfully loud, suffocating, devoid of York’s good natured dunks on the team when they lose, his joy when they win. Fish makes eye contact with Vapor, and they’re all thinking the same thing.
“What do we say to Mrs. Silk?” Jesús asks, tentatively, and Ziwa notes with a heavy feeling in their gut that all the Talkers’ eyes are dry. The game doesn’t have time for grief. “What— what do we say to Alston?”
“Fuck,” Fish mutters, and Ziwa’s stomach drops. In all the heyday, they’d forgotten that Alston was Elsewhere, still finding their way home. Jesús is looking at them, the team captain, to do something, say something, anything.
Fish’s skin is still rippling with heat, the fire eating them up from the inside, and they’re going to have to hold that pain for an entire day. Everyone in the dugout knows that Fish is feeling what killed York, and will continue feeling it until their next at-bat, and they all too exhausted to dissect what it means. This is the game. This is their life.
“I’ll call her,” Ziwa says. “Don’t worry about it.” The words are hollow. They all know how much Mrs. Silk loves her son. But the Moist Talkers file out at Ziwa’s request, presumably not worrying about it.
All of York’s body burned. There’s nothing left, nothing to give a grieving mother but the contents of his locker. Ziwa holds their phone and punches in the numbers and only feels dread.
Mrs. Silk comes up to Halifax. It’s the first time in a long time. She doesn’t like Canada, never has. But her son is dead, and there are apartments to clean, lives to put into boxes, funerals to plan. If anyone has to put her baby to rest, it might as well be her.
The plane ride from Hawai’i is long, but the drive feels longer. On the drive, Mrs. Silk has time to think, has time for everything to settle in. She’d brought York here so long ago for the first time, has attended countless games, has watched time and again as he hit the ball out of the park and ran the bases, claiming every time that the home run was just for her.
She’s sobbing. Mrs. Silk is in the car on the freeway and she’s crying, tears running down her eyes and her nose dripping onto her chin and she’s sobbing and if she continues like this she’ll get into an accident so she pulls over. She’s sobbing. Her son is dead. She’s driving to Halifax like it’s any other Wednesday and her son is dead, he’s dead, he burned and she was on an island, a country and an ocean away. She wasn’t there. Her son is dead and she wasn’t there.
She feels like there’s a gash down her throat, like Ziwa’s phone call sliced her neck open and she is gushing blood from her throat to her stomach. Mrs. Silk’s chest could’ve been carved open, her beating heart frantic against the chilly air, her hair soaked in her own blood, and it would hurt less than losing York. She would take any torture. She would take any pain. If she could’ve jumped in front of the umpire, she wouldn’t have even thought twice. Mrs. Silk sits in the car begging that there is some universe where she can sacrifice herself for her son, and he can see the sun rise.
Mrs. Silk hasn’t even made it halfway to Halifax yet. She’s shaking as cars speed past her, uncaring, preoccupied on their way to their own destination. If only she could stay in this moment forever. If only she could freeze time on the road, so she would stay in limbo, never truly having to reconcile the interrupted apartment she’ll walk into hours later. She doesn’t want to see the contents of York’s fridge or his latest reminders on the to-do list she encouraged him to set up.
But if she doesn’t make it by the evening, the team will play another game, and she’ll be alone in Canada, waiting, praying that by some miracle her son will walk through the door and laugh and act surprised that her eyes are bloodshot and her hair is unkempt.
She’d do anything to bring him home. Anything.
Mrs. Silk finds a motel on the side of the road. She can’t make it to the city in a single day. She worries that her cookies will go stale. She feels ridiculous for bringing them. But she’s not sure what else to do for her son’s second family aside from feed them, aside from care for them the only way she knows how.
In the morning she’s back on the road, hands steady on the wheel.
On Day 90, Mrs. Silk arrives at the field, and though she looks tired, she is smiling softly. Her hair is pulled back at the nape of her neck the way York’s so often was, which Ziwa notes as they let her in.
“I brought,” Mrs. Silk begins, rummaging into her backpack and pulling out a tupperware, “snacks.” They’re chocolate cookies with chocolate chips. “For the new player. For the whole team, of course, but for the new player.”
Ziwa stares down at the tupperware like maybe they should do something about it. Like accepting a container of cookies will fix the Moist Talkers’ shit mood. Somehow, in five minutes, a grieving mother has done more to welcome Lucien than the team has, scattered as they are. Ziwa is both guilty and immeasurably grateful.
“Thanks, Mrs. Silk,” they say, accepting the container with two careful hands. She’s watching them intently, so Ziwa smiles and nods to the dugout. “Would you like to say hello?”
A moment of hesitation. Maybe Ziwa’s fucked up. Maybe Mrs. Silk doesn’t want to see the eerie porcelain person who has taken her son’s place. “Of course,” Mrs. Silk says. Her eyes are cavernous and hollow. “A warm welcome must be a necessity.”
“Well,” Ziwa says with an uncomfortable sort of laugh, “we’re trying.”
“I completely understand,” Mrs. Silk says, and they smile at each other, united in nothing but their grief.
The dugout goes quiet when Mrs. Silk walks in. She is almost radiant in the wintry air, all warm browns and coral pinks and fresh greens. Her eyes skip across the team: Jesús, pulling his jacket tight around his shoulders, Eugenia, held together in a vaguely humanoid form, Fish, wrung-out from retching magma, and then— there. Lucien Patchwork.
They look delicate, with four eyes on each side of their face, all-black with no sclera and long, thin eyelashes. Their face is cracked, filled with various amounts of gold, and it disappears down their uniform. Lucien’s fingers are thin and stained black with ink, spider like and spindling, and at once, all eight of those eyes are fixed on the mother from Hawai’i, and they are kind.
“I brought snacks,” Mrs. Silk repeats, and her voice is so small. “To say welcome. Lucien—” and she steps forward, dwarfed by the looming porcelain doll to clasp one of their hands in both of her own. “I am so sorry you have been brought here. But there are few better places to be within it.”
“Mrs. Silk,” Fish says, voice hoarse, “you don’t have to be here.”
She puts a calming hand on their shoulder. “I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to. Don’t worry. York would want me to see you all.”
“Thanks, Mrs. S,” Vapor says, and the problem is that no one else has anything to say.
“We’ve got to do something,” Ziwa says after the game, as Mrs. Silk gets into her rental car and drives away.
“What are we supposed to do?” Jesús asks, folding their arms over their chest. “York’s dead. It’s not like we can bring him back.” We could goes unspoken, resting in the scarred divots of team morale after Ruby Tuesday.
“Not for York,” Ziwa says, rolling their eyes. “For Mrs. Silk. I mean, shit, she just showed up here for us with cookies, and we haven’t even gotten her flowers or anything.”
Fish clears their throat, thumps their chest a couple of times. “Z, I kind of doubt she’s going to want flowers.”
“You know what I mean.” Ziwa scowls in their general direction, and Fish shrugs. “Get dinner with her, help with the apartment, that sort of thing. Just give her someone. We all have each other.”
“We could set up a fund,” CV suggests, voice small. “I don’t know, like covering the costs of her flights and stuff? And the— the funeral?”
The air is quiet for a moment. “That’s actually not a bad idea,” Ziwa says. “We could get the Fridays on board. There’s a lot of cost, in all this.”
“Yeah.”
Another beat of silence. It’s been seven seasons and the league’s longest siesta since they’ve had to say goodbye, and never have they had to do so to a player who spent the majority of their career as a child. All of the headlines have pictures of one of York’s home runs from when he was a bright eyed kid, because the ones post-shelling are too unsettling for a tabloid’s memoriam, too haunted and filled with anger.
“I can handle it,” Ziwa says, shouldering their bag as they stand up. “I’ll let you all know, okay?”
There’s a couple concerned glances as the team files out of the dugout, and Fish actually catches them on the arm as they turn to go. “Hey.”
“Summer, if you’re here to talk shit, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m not.” Fish’s voice is gentle, and Ziwa begrudgingly looks up at them. “I know you’re the captain, but it doesn’t have to be your burden alone. We all lost him. And we can all get through that together.”
Ziwa wants to snap at them, but pulls it back. That’s fucking stupid, Fish is trying to help. Their shoulders slump, and they nod. “I know. Just don’t want to overwhelm her.”
“I get it,” Fish says. “Don’t shut us out either, though, okay?”
“Yeah,” Ziwa says, and they sound tired, more so than they thought. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, Mueller.”
Mrs. Silk is standing in the parking lot, screaming at her phone. Well, she’s not screaming; she’s never been a screamer, but this is the closest to screaming that she’s been in a while, certainly the angriest that anyone on the Talkers has ever seen her. Nagomi’s voice is coming through the phone: “I’m sorry, M. I am. But I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Anything,” Mrs. Silk is saying, and gods, she’s crying again, isn’t she? Gods, she’s standing in the parking lot and begging her ex-wife to do anything to save their— to save her son. York is her son.
“M, I don’t have any control over the game. This was horrible, I know. But I can’t—”
“Can’t you?” It’s day 98. Mrs. Silk has been in Canada all week. Ziwa is walking out of the dugout before the game to this scene, hanging back for privacy. “They listen to you, don’t they? Can’t you talk to Lady Friday? The Mother Crab? Hades? Can’t you do anything?”
They sound like they’ve been having this argument for a while. Nagomi sighs. “The only thing I can ask is that they help York find a place to rest. I’m not in control of anything any of these gods do.”
“But you’re not even going to ask,” Mrs. Silk says, and there is a desperation in her voice so strong it sounds primal.
“I don’t have power over life and death, M!” Nagomi snaps, and it’s only a moment of irritation before the calm returns. “Not mine, and sure as hell not York’s. If I could bring people back from the dead, do you think I would’ve spent a season in the shadows of Boston?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Mrs. Silk snarls, her lip curling upwards. “What a shame that you were forced into the only safety that exists in this godforsaken game.” She laughs, but it’s just a sound, no joy in it. “Or is the safety irrelevant when you can just swallow the fire? You‘ll be alright, after all. Can’t siphon from off the field, is that what this is?”
Nagomi sighs. “I understand that you’re angry. But it doesn’t change what’s possible, and it doesn’t change my answer. For years my life was at much as risk as anyone’s, no matter how much you’d like to paint me as an all-powerful bitch gaming the system to leave you in the dirt.” There’s a whistle from behind her. “Look, I’ve got to go pitch. If you want to talk to me later, fine.”
“Wait,” Mrs. Silk says, putting the phone to her lips. “Wait, don’t go, you can’t—”
“M,” Nagomi says, and there’s steel in their voice, “play must continue. You know that.”
“I have to do something.” Mrs. Silk’s pitch is rising with each word. “I have to do something for him, Nagomi, I can’t just sit here and accept that he’s gone, I can’t—”
Another whistle, more urgent. “I’m sorry,” Nagomi says. “Seriously. But I have to go.”
“I need to bring him home, I have to,” Mrs. Silk repeats. The words are stuck in the back of her throat. “If anyone can help me it’s you. If there’s anyone in the whole game it’s you, please, you don’t have to do anything else, I’ll owe you, I’ll—”
“Mcdaniel!” It’s a gruff voice that Mrs. Silk doesn’t recognize. “Put the fucking phone down and get on the field.”
“I have to go,” Nagomi says, over the sound of Mrs. Silk’s increasingly incoherent hysterics. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m sorry.”
The dial tone that follows is louder than any scream. Mrs. Silk is quiet, her shoulders shaking, and Ziwa wonders if they should just pretend like they didn’t catch any of the phone call, but when Mrs. Silk glances up, they make eye contact right away.
Ziwa waves. Mrs. Silk wipes hastily at her eyes, sniffling, saying, “Oh— oh, Ziwa, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Ziwa says, which isn’t true, but it’s not Mrs. Silk’s fault that the world is upside down. “Do you want to see the team before the game?”
Mrs. Silk shakes her head. Ziwa figured as much. “I’m okay.” The statement is beyond unconvincing. “I shouldn’t have called her. I thought—” She covers her face with a hand so Ziwa doesn’t have to see it crumple. “I thought it would be nice to hear someone say my name, but she didn’t, she didn’t—” A guttural sort of sob breaks from the back of her throat and Ziwa, despite themself, moves forward to hug her.
Ziwa Mueller is the captain of the Moist Talkers. They have comforted their team through Ruby Tuesday, through Day X, through the end of the Discipline Era. They have never felt quite as unqualified as they do when they hold Mrs. Silk in the parking lot outside the stadium, like they could break her by not holding on tight enough.
“I’m sorry,” Ziwa says, and goes to call her by her name when they realize that they don’t know it. York had been playing with them for four seasons and all of the Grand Siesta, and Ziwa never learned his mother’s first name. “I can— if you want us to know, we can— what is your name?”
Mrs. Silk takes a deep, shuddering breath, and pulls away. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry, that was unfair.” She steps back, straightens, and for the first time Ziwa doesn’t see her as York Silk’s mythical mother or the woman who married Nagomi Mcdaniel. “Kanoa. My name is Kanoa Lokelani.”
And that makes so much more sense.
The regular season ends. The Moist Talkers finish at the top of the game, seeded first in the Mild League, and when the game schedule comes through, they’re playing four-time champion turned Wildcard Baltimore Crabs. Despite the Crabs’ abysmal record in the regular season, a nervous energy crackles among the Talkers.
Wordlessly, they’ve decided to play the postseason for York. They were the best in their class; they’ve got to take it home now. They can’t come this far just to lose now. The Moist Talkers can’t have another one of those postseasons where they’re immediately eliminated, and they laugh, and say, “Next year!” and their only consequence is disappointment. York is gone. They have one chance.
Mrs. Silk arrives in their dugout on day 103, to everyone’s surprise. She looks much better than she did when Ziwa last saw her. “Kanoa!” they call, warmly, and there is something holy about the way her eyes light up with the acknowledgement, as if her name restored a power she hadn’t allowed them to see.
“I brought granola,” she says, looking a bit sheepish as she pulls open her tote and pulls out a small bag of hand-selected grains and fruits. “I wasn’t sure if you all would want it, but if you do, there’s more than enough for everyone.”
There’s a short beat before Jesús says, “Aw, thank you, Mrs. Silk,” and then the rest of the team is clamoring their appreciation, picking up a portion and saying thank you and trying, honestly, not to make it weird to the best of their ability.
“Kanoa,” she’s saying, smiling. “Call me Kanoa.”
Ziwa stands back and thinks about how all the final talks with the Fridays went through this morning, and how it really can’t hurt to break the news early, especially not with this act of kindness in front of them. “Kanoa,” they repeat, once everything has settled down. “The team’s been working with the Fridays this past week, and we wanted to do something for you.” Kanoa looks both surprised and guarded, but Ziwa takes a deep breath and doesn’t back down. “So we set up a fund,” they say. “For anyone who wants to remember York to give to you. Any type of donations, from money to meals, anything we can process. If nothing else, you shouldn’t have to worry about surviving. And we can help with the rest, okay? York’s part of the team. That means so are you.”
Kanoa is quiet for a long moment, and though q3 we we her smile is watery, she doesn’t cry. Ziwa can’t parse all of her reaction, but they hope it’s good. “Thank you,” she says, and Ziwa can see where York got his distinctive grin. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
The Moist Talkers win their first game against the Crabs 6-3, and boy, does it feel good.
At first, Kanoa doesn’t realize what’s wrong. At first, in fact, she’s stunned by the numbers pouring in the moment the account goes live, amazed beyond her wildest imaginations that someone would donate one hundred thousand Coins to her, to help her through this, and Kanoa has never cared about money but she still can barely believe it.
She thinks about the funeral costs, covered. She thinks about the weight on her chest that she felt when she booked her round trip from Hawai’i to Canada and back again, and the feeling is gone. She could go back and forth without stress, without fear. She thinks about putting anything left over towards the house.
And then it happens again.
The feeling of elation is mixed with confusion. Kanoa had assumed the first donor was a wealthy benefactor, maybe a longtime fan of York’s. And sure, she knows that following the ILB is a pricey habit that attracts the wealthy, and she’s heard about the famed gambling accounts that hold more Coins in a season than a family makes in a decade, but this seems ridiculous. Two hundred thousand Coins is more money than Kanoa knows what to do with all at once.
The Moist Talkers sweep the Crabs. Jesús is Elsewhere, and despite the team’s worry, spirits are high. Mrs. Silk watches the games from the dugout as the York Silk Memorial Fund grows slowly, ten to fifteen Coins at a time, and she almost manages to forget about the absurd amount of money sitting in the account.
Then it’s 50k. Then yet another hundred thousand. On the way to Yellowstone, Kanoa flags Fish down to ask, “Is this correct?”
Fish’s face pales. “Are those—”
“The donations,” Kanoa says, frowning. “Why? What’s wrong? I thought they might be fraudulent, there’s no way—”
“No,” Fish mutters. “They’re real.” They look up at her and force half a smile that does nothing to make Kanoa feel better. “Look, you don’t have to worry about it, alright? It’s working as planned, it looks like, which is good. Really good.” Fish hands Kanoa her phone back, and she takes it with a growing sense of unease.
The Moist Talkers tie up the series in Yellowstone with a narrow 6-5 win. Kanoa usually watches them, and should be more invested in such a tight game, but she has a hunch.
Within a few minutes she’s found an ILB gambling strategy website, one of the good ones with an entry fee. There’s some pop up banner asking if she’d like to pay an extra five Coins every month to get insider access to ideal team Will strategies, or an entire five hundred to “Go Rogue: Game the System to Boost Your Favorite Player! Our team will help calculate the number of Votes you need to buy to turn that 0% chance into 100%!”
Kanoa clicks away from the bonuses, but signs up for the main website without thinking twice. Why should she worry about money when the York Silk Memorial Fund is currently holding more than her savings and still growing? The interface is surprisingly user friendly, but it still takes her a moment to toggle to “Passive Income,” to find what she’s looking for.
Sundaes: Refreshing. Earn coins every time a Player is incinerated.
At once, Kanoa’s world goes very small. It’s just her and the phone. The website has notes: cost to payout ratio makes this Snack particularly worthwhile. Maximizing the Sunday costs 499,950 Coins and pays 50,000 Coins per Incineration. Fans will break even after only 10 Incinerations! A small yellow outline designated the Sundae as “highly recommended” for Fan purchase.
Kanoa’s hands are shaking. The puzzle is putting itself together too quickly. She keeps reading. As of LS-87-14, the theory that Super Idols double Sundae revenue is confirmed with the 100,000 Coin payout of Moist Talkers batter York Silk. Presumably, if Nagomi Mcdaniel ever loses the Fire Eater modification—
Kanoa can barely leave the dugout fast enough to throw up on the pavement outside.
That’s blood money. The Moist Talkers wanted to do something for Kanoa, but what they did was open an avenue for everyone who felt guilty about profiting off her son’s death to unshoulder their burden and absolve themselves of complicity.
As she thinks it she knows it’s going to keep happening. Anyone with anything left of a conscience will unload it onto Kanoa’s bank account and go on their way. One last good deed, in the heart of the game. In this moment, she hates the Fans more than she hates the umpires.
After Fish’s reaction, Kanoa decides not to tell Ziwa. They can figure it out on their own. She doesn’t want to say it out loud, doesn’t want to make it true. And on another, deeper level, Kanoa doesn’t want the team to decide she can’t handle the reality of Fans profiting off her son’s death, and take it all away from her.
The gambling website she signed up for sends her an email about rumors of necromancy, and almost at once, Kanoa is on high alert.
She remembers Jaylen. Of course she remembers Jaylen; how could she forget? She remembers Ruby Tuesday, the bloodbath, the death of the Millennials’ captain. She remembers the twelve who died. She remembers the mourning of those around them.
But she would do anything to bring York back. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.
Here is the truth about Kanoa Lokelani Silk: she has always been aware that the mere act of her survival is resistance, and she wears it well. She was born in Lahaina, on the island of Maui, when the red roses bloomed, and so she was named Lokelani for them, an inoa ho‘omana‘o. Her other name was brought to her father in a dream, an inoa pō: Kanoa, the free one.
As she grew older, Kanoa began to appreciate its other meaning more: the commoner. She found no shame in being ordinary. What else was she to be? She didn’t dream of the spotlight; she abhorred celebrity. She preferred herself in the shadows, a mystery, an enigma, if nothing else. Kanoa was anyone, everyone: the woman down at the beach, the cashier at one of the big malls in Kahului, the neighbor who always had an extra egg. Kanoa existed in periphery, a private observer happy in her own existence.
Looking back on it, Kanoa’s intense need for privacy was one of the things that ensured her relationship with Nagomi would never be successful. If she were to mention that to someone in the ILB, she’d be laughed at: Nagomi is infamously stoic, a horrible interviewee. But the prickle is just as much persona as any media darling’s, and by now, reporters expect their characteristic, snappish retorts, one line that hammers another nail in the coffin of Nagomi Mcdaniel, six-star batter and unsolvable mystery. Kanoa, on the other hand, managed to keep her name out of a public divorce. ‘Silk’ isn’t even her given surname. Every article that mentions Mrs. Silk is always accompanied with declined for comment, if the organization reached out to her at all.
But it’s her precise opacity to the outside world that holds Kanoa’s adoration of the ordinary, of her home and her people, of her history, her language, her commonality. To be common is to be willing to understand all walks of life. To be free is to belong wholly to herself, to her dreams, her comforts, her priorities. When York is born, she will teach this to him in every way she can, in the sounds of ‘Ōlelo Hawai’i, in the stories she tells him before he falls asleep.
Before her son, though, Kanoa’s values led her to her first love: hula. Her father says she loved the dance before she could walk. Kanoa is certain he’s right. Her earliest memories are of awe and love, watching the chant, the performance, the rhythm, the flowers, the ritual, the prayer. To this day the only thing she can say for certain that she loves more than hula is her son. So much else pales in comparison to the dance, and everything that came with it.
She always dreamed of rising through the ranks and becoming a kumu, of passing down the knowledge she had so diligently learned to those after her. Kanoa dreamed of not only keeping hula alive but keeping it healthy, nourished, well fed, strong. Blaseball took that future away, and of course Kanoa doesn’t regret supporting York, especially not against a world that happily would’ve eaten him alive. But nonetheless she mourned what could’ve been, and resented the game that took the possibility from her.
And now it has taken her son, too. Kanoa has no room in her heart for mercy.
Here is the truth about Kanoa Lokelani Silk: she has never been passive. She danced histories; she told them in chants. The truth is that she never presented herself as weak, and if others underestimate her on account of her kindness, the fault is theirs. And, like always, Kanoa will not take the flashy path. If all goes well, she will not be detected. But she will be effective.
She’ll bring her son home.
On Day 111, it looks like the Moist Talkers are going to be knocked out of the semifinals. They’re down 2-1 in the series, and even if they pull it together, Curry Aliciakeyes would pitch the tiebreaker. And sure, Jenkins Good is solid for a three star pitcher, but Curry dominates. Kanoa arrives in the dugout on Day 112 to the team huddled together, and catches the word “plunder” among the murmured conversation.
Ziwa breaks away looking pissed. Kanoa reaches out to them, brow furrowed. “Is everything alright?”
“It’s fine.” Ziwa sighs in a way that makes it immediately apparent that they’re lying. Kanoa raises a brow, and Ziwa amends themself: “It’s nothing you need to worry about. Idol board nonsense. There’s talk of some of the Fans trying to use Wills to Plunder York. Resurrect him.” Kanoa goes very still all at once, and Ziwa takes her surprise as affront. “I’m sorry. Seriously, we’ll make sure it doesn’t happen. I’ve been talking to our publicity people, and apparently the vast majority of active Moist Talkers Fans are in favor of letting him rest. Fridays too. So don’t worry about it.”
A surge of cold rage swells in Kanoa’s chest. They asked the players. They asked the publicity people. They asked the Fridays. They asked the Fans, the abominations who continue to shower her in profits on account of their weighty consciences. Of course they wouldn’t want to see her son come home. Why would the people who killed him ever want to face the consequence?
And worse still are the Fans who want to resurrect him for their amusement, York’s high idol board status making him easy picking to have an impact on the league. They don’t care about him, they care about the game. They care about the money that York’s Debt could bring.
But no one ever asked Kanoa how she felt about the whole affair. They simply chose, like she doesn’t know what she wants, like she doesn’t know what’s best for York. She says, “Why is everyone so against it?”
Ziwa looks sharply over at Kanoa, who keeps her expression calm, a little surprised, a little hurt. The picture of a grieving mother. She’s gotten good at taming down the anguish that no one wants to see into a quiet tiredness, a stoic resolve, a palatable mask to hide the storm. “Well—” Ziwa almost flounders, clears their throat. “After Jaylen, there were… a lot of people who never wanted to do necromancy again.” Kanoa knows the names of the dead: Workman Gloom. Antonio Wallace. Elijah Bates. She knows there are more.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “I was… aware of that piece.”
“But it’s more than that,” Ziwa says, shifting their stance like they can’t quite pin down the direction of their words. “Did you— did you ever see Jaylen? Did you ever know her, or anything? That might be a stupid question—”
Kanoa shakes her head. “She only played the Fridays once.”
“Right,” Ziwa says, nodding. “Right, well the thing is— Jaylen came back wrong. The Garages still talk about it now. Whatever happened between going down into the Hall back in season one and coming back out five years later, things got messed up. It wasn’t just the— just the, you know, the beaning people, it was everything. It was like she was falling apart. We can’t just try to put a person back together and not expect consequences.”
But Kanoa expects consequences. She does not care what they are. Ziwa remembers Season 7 as a time when their team was ripped apart by a remorseless revenant; Kanoa remembers the first time she lost her son to the ILB’s greed. She remembers when York was Shelled, remembers being dragged kicking and screaming away from what was, for all legal purposes, the Fridays’ possession, and she remembers what happened when he came back out like it was yesterday.
The Shelled One already turned him into a puppet once. If York rises a monster, why should Kanoa care?
She says, “I understand,” in her most sympathetic tone, and Ziwa looks relieved. “I—” She looks down, looks away, teases out the real grief she feels, the real desire to hold her baby in her arms again. “It’s for the best. I see.”
Ziwa nods. “It is. I’m sorry. But you get it.” They’re off to rejoin the team before Kanoa responds, which is alright. She wasn’t planning on saying anything anyway.
The Moist Talkers activate the Black hole in the game that follows, and are Shamed in the ninth inning, but Kanoa hardly notices when the series score doesn’t change at the end of the game. She’s spent hours upon hours pouring through the gambling website, paying to unlock team-specific voting guides, learning the intricacies of maximizing profits.
Kanoa doesn’t need to maximize profits. She needs to vote. She needs to figure out how to use the Will interface. She needs to take the Coins that have been given to her and turn them into persuasion. She needs to make the election hers.
For now, the Moist Talkers will play another game, and Kanoa will sit by another day.
“Where’s Kanoa?” They’re playing Aliciakeyes today, and to call tensions high would be an understatement. They have to take this game if they want even half a chance at making it to the finals, and if Ziwa’s being honest with themself, their pre-game conversations with Kanoa have become a reassuring part of the routine.
Fish glances over at them and shrugs. “At home? Why, was she supposed to come?”
“No, I just…” I just wanted her to make me feel better sounds horrifically selfish, even if Kanoa’s calming presence always did have that effect. Honestly, at this point, Ziwa can’t pretend that their almost daily talks with Kanoa are for Kanoa’s benefit alone. They just like her, her private smiles and gently enduring patience, the way that she sits calmly in the dugout in the middle of a raging eclipse, like an anchor in a storm. They’ve come to consider her a friend. They’ve come to consider her a comfort. They were supposed to be helping Kanoa through the loss of her son, and— “Nevermind,” Ziwa mumbles. “Nevermind, it’s fine. We’re all the way down in Yellowstone anyway.”
“Okay?” Fish quirks a brow in their direction. “I’m sure she’s fine, Z. We can get her a little postcard if you think she missed us that much.”
They’re teasing. Fish is teasing, Ziwa knows they’re teasing, but they’re sitting in the dugout feeling abruptly guilty for how quickly they let Kanoa take care of them, as though after so long the balance would simply return and Kanoa would once again become a mother instead of a woman with a name, with hurts and hopes and loves.
“Z,” Fish says again. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” Ziwa says, and knows Fish doesn’t believe them. This isn’t one of those captain things that Ziwa carries on their own, this is them dropping the ball on someone they considered a friend.
“If you say so,” Fish says, and pushes themself up off the bench to warm up.
Ziwa gives the pep talk of their life before the game. They’re not usually one for speeches, preferring a tense, quick team huddle and a, “Leave it all on the field,” to dramatics. But today’s different. Today they’re against Curry Aliciakeyes. Today they’re battling for a spot in the championship games. Today they’re playing for York; today they’re playing for Kanoa.
They get nine runs off Aliciakeyes, and Jenkins holds the Magic down to 4. Strike, ball, two more strikes. That’s the tactic to counter the buff, and it works like a charm. Ziwa is screaming when the game is over, yelling themself hoarse, because they did it, they’re two for two, it’s the final stretch. They’re so close to the Internet Series. They’re so close to victory.
The team gets Kanoa a postcard on their way out of Yellowstone.
Nagomi’s calling. It’s late, and Kanoa is drunk on calculations, flute prices, Coin-to-vote conversions. She thought about paying someone to help her, but they might figure out what she’s going for. They might put together Kanoa’s inordinate amount of funds and her obvious plan to Plunder by any means necessary and figure out her identity. Can’t have that. Can’t have anything but control, but perfect math, but precision in her ultimate gamble.
Kanoa picks up the phone. “It’s late, Nagomi.”
Silence on the other line. Then— “M,” Nagomi says, “the Crabs were talking about bringing me h— bringing me back. To Baltimore.”
“Home?” Kanoa says, and she doesn’t realize the capability her voice holds for fury until she hears the sneer in her words.
Nagomi swallows. “Maybe.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Plunder.” There it is. There’s the woman Kanoa fell in love with, who doesn’t mince words and doesn’t know how to. At least it means they’ll get the ugly part finished with quickly.
“I have,” Kanoa says. “The Moist Talkers told me.”
Nagomi says, “There’s hardly a chance it’ll work. We might have another way.” She sounds hungry. Starving. Kanoa has spent long enough listening to recordings of people obsessed with gaming the ILB’s systems to serve their needs, the type of people who pour over stat charts and idol payouts, the type who write the voting guides, the type with a glint in their eye asking just how far they’d go for success, the type whose answer is anywhere. Nagomi sounds ravenous.
“You want to bring back my son,” Kanoa says, slow. She likes to say it slow, so the intention hits. She’s staring at her computer monitor, her math, her spreadsheets.
“I think I can.”
“Why?” There’s a ragged note in her tone. Kanoa has been awake for too long. “Are you sick of the sidelines, Nagomi? Is it not enough to only be the best player in the league? Is it not enough that you were Shelled, do you regret avoiding glory with the PODs? Was coming back to Hawai’i punishment for you?”
There’s only the sound of breathing across the phone. Good. They’re still here. “Or is it that you were obsessed with your destiny?” Kanoa asks, and it’s razor sharp, mocking. “That you claimed you were made to tangle with gods and you never raised a bat against one?”
“At least I know you still speak your mind,” Nagomi murmurs, voice low. “You really don’t change, M. Never could do shit for you without you making it about some way I was a failure.”
“For me?” A bitter laugh escapes Kanoa, scraping the bottom of her throat on the way out. “This is for me? Like the way I told you I wanted to see you more and you mailed me tickets to your next game, the way that that was for me? Like the way that getting married in the off-season so I could see you on our anniversary was for me , because you were planning your life around the ILB before we even got married? Like the way you skipped our wedding anniversary for practice anyway, because it was a job and you were providing, never mind I had one of my own? The way that was for me?”
“You act like you’ve never made a mistake,” Nagomi snaps, and there’s a real growl to it. “Fine, I fucked up, that’s why we got a fucking divorce, M. God fucking forbid that I ever be anything but the bad guy. God forbid I have fucking life outside of you and York—”
“You agreed to help raise him!” Kanoa is almost shrieking. “You agreed, and I expected that of you, and you fucked off to the Tigers as soon as you could—”
“You say that like you didn’t encourage me to go.”
“You hardly told me the schedule. You said you’d come back.”
“I was there every offseason.”
“That’s hardly any time. You were gone by elections.”
Nagomi clears their throat. “You’re changing the subject.”
“You’re not understanding the subject in the first place,” Kanoa says.
“I’m offering to bring back your kid. Take it or leave it.”
“You said you couldn't earlier,” Kanoa says, and she’s fallen into some sort of trance. She hasn’t slept. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s eaten. She’s running on nervous energy and determination and the ever present thought of seeing York again.
“Things changed. I changed. Or I could change.” There’s the hunger again.
“You want to use him as a pawn,” Kanoa accuses. “What do you want from him, Nagomi? What’s it going to give to you if he comes back?”
Nagomi’s voice is rough. They say, “He’s not a pawn.”
“Don’t lie to me. Don’t fucking treat me like glass because I’m his mother.”
“Could you get your head out of your fucking martyr complex for half a second, M,” Nagomi says, “and think that maybe the reason I don’t want to give you the gory details is because I think you shouldn’t have to sit with that at night?”
“And could you snap out of your fucking god complex and think that there’s nothing, nothing worse than picking up the fucking remnants of my son’s ashes from a tin in Canada?” Kanoa shakes her head. “You think you’re the only person who’s ever seen anything. You’re the only one who’s ever had something unsavory happen to them in the game.”
“And not seeing more of it doesn’t mean that I’m treating you like glass. Maybe I’m treating you like a fucking human being and it’s something you can’t reconcile with the version of me that exists in your head to make you miserable.”
Silence, for a moment.
Then Kanoa says, “I don’t want your hands,” and she says it slow, so Nagomi can hear it, “anywhere near my son.”
“Fine,” Nagomi says, and they both know that the whole conversation has meant nothing.
Kanoa doesn’t return to the Moist Talkers dugout until the championship game. She looks tentative, sturdy and delicate at the same time, glancing around at the stadium like it’s the first time she’s seen it. Admittedly, the place has been transformed; it’s packed with people and vendors and excitement, the pulsing crowd. This isn’t just any Internet Series. This is one in memorial, with spectators from every team holding signs for York, for the Talkers.
Ziwa catches her eye, sees that she’s wearing the nice coat they bought with the money from the York Silk Memorial Fund. Kanoa smiles at them, walks over, pulls the jacket tighter around her shoulders. “Quite a crowd out here,” she says, peering at the stands.
“Yeah.” Ziwa follows her gaze. “Hey, is everything okay? Aside from— I mean, you haven’t been at games recently, and you came for a lot of them earlier. I was just wondering if something changed.”
Kanoa looks at the ground for a moment. Ziwa can see the corners of her mouth tugging downwards and rushes to correct themself, but— “No,” Kanoa says, with a soft smile. “No, I’m quite alright. I’d been around the game for a bit too long. I wish I hadn’t missed such decisive matches, but I needed some time away.” She puts a hand on Ziwa’s arm briefly, reassuring. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“No, you were well within your rights to take a break,” they say. “The team just missed you, and we’re glad to see you again. Seriously. Just happy you’re okay.”
“Of course,” Kanoa says. “I’m happy to be here.” There’s a twinkle in her eye. “Bring it home, won’t you?”
They do. After this whole season, the fight for the finals spot, the Moist Talkers sweep the Internet Series. They do it for their dork. There is something almost plastic to it, Kanoa notes as she watches, as though she’s already aware that this memorial won’t last. Her mind is in the future, when her boy is safe and sound, when she will fear nothing but the consequences she inflicted, for which she will gladly take the blame. She is eager for it. Starving, even.
Ravenous.
Kanoa is on her feet at the end of the game, because it is expected of her, she whoops and applauds the Moist Talkers as they exist the field, sweating and exhausted and happy, because this is how they understand her: a cheerleader, on the sidelines, a passive observer who hardly has a name. Excitement is not difficult to muster: tonight she will gain full control over the York Silk Memorial Fund. Her request for so many Votes will take time to process, and so Kanoa plans to begin it immediately, once the money is in her sole possession.
The Moist Talkers gather in loving memory of York Silk. Kanoa bristles with anticipation of making new ones.
ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.
“No,” Kanoa breathes. She’s halfway through her careful plan, weeks of work put into how many votes she should place per team, how many flutes she needs to buy, and now her account is showing an error. “No, no, no—” She presses the heels of her hands to her forehead and fights back tears. She needs the Votes. She needs to complete the process. She can’t be taken down by a fucking system overload that won’t process her flute requests, she can’t. She planned for it. She planned for everything.
Except this.
“What the fuck did you do?”
In a moment of doubt, and fear, and hurt, and anger, Kanoa has called Nagomi.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your stupid fucking crab, you fucked up my whole plan, didn’t you?” Kanoa snaps, and she knows how she sounds, but there can’t be any other explanation. “You were sick of not being good enough so you had to take my son’s resurrection into your hands? Is that what this is? Do you want to be a fucking hero, Nagomi?”
“I’m not doing anything,” Nagomi says. “M, what are you going on about?”
“You know,” Kanoa snarls. “You have to know, what else would be fucking with my account like this? The ILB has the most elite system in the world to avoid this exact problem—”
“What problem?”
“—and you can’t let me have anything, anything, it always has to be about you and your fucking hero complex and not what would help him; you made him cry when he was seven years old, Nagomi, and I didn’t know how to tell him that his mom wasn’t coming home, and now you want to use him as a stepping stone for godhood and you want me to be okay? You want me to—”
“Kanoa.” It’s the first time Nagomi has used her name in years. “What’s the problem?”
She doesn’t know when she’s started crying but her chest is heaving and there’s salt on her lips. “My—” Suddenly Kanoa feels so small. She’s spent weeks hunched over an interface, trying to rig an election that thousands of wealthy, experienced betters have spent years developing strategies to win, using the blood money donated by guilty consciences to try to bring back her son. She doesn’t remember the last time she had a good night’s rest. “My flute request won’t go through,” she says, and her voice is reedy, trembling.
Nagomi sighs. “Double click the Shop tab and refresh the page twice. If it doesn’t work, hold Escape for three seconds.” There’s a beat of silence. Kanoa’s quiet cries are the only sound. Then Nagomi says, sounding smug, “See? Hardly a reason to accuse me of anything.”
“Fuck you,” Kanoa whispers, and hangs up.
It works. Nagomi was right. The rest of the Votes go through without a hitch.
Kanoa is back in Hawai’i on Election Day. It took work, but she was eventually allowed to bury York’s ashes in his home, so he could decompose back into the land.
It was never supposed to be like this. York should have buried Kanoa after she had grown old, wrapped her bones in cloth and placed the funeral basket into the dirt, so her wisdom could seep into the island and infuse it with her strength. Kanoa does not have York’s bones; they burned along with him. She thought about a sea burial. She thought about a ceremony spectated upon by those who had never known him. She thought about the reporters who would try to capture images of her solitary figure dispersing the ashes over the sea.
She decided to bury him alone, his ashes in a canvas bag, next to her father, whose gravesite was marked with a large marker of stacked stones. Kanoa stands before them both now, her father and her son, gone before her. Three generations of her family, and only one woman left standing.
Kanoa is alone. She is standing in a graveyard, and she’s alone.
Hawai’i is beautiful. She’s been away from it too long, gotten too used to the cold air in Halifax, and now when she stands in the sun it feels stronger than before. The island is bright and vibrant, and if Kanoa closes her eyes, she can almost hear the sounds of York laughing as he splashes through the waves, joyful and unburdened and alive.
She checks her phone. The Election is being processed as she stands here, waiting, wishing. It all comes down to this. The Moist Talkers may have found their victory at the season’s end but Kanoa needs hers now.
Years ago, back in season one, Kanoa and Nagomi watched the elections together, Kanoa’s head on Nagomi’s shoulder, knowing nothing about the game but excited on behalf of her wife. “It’s just bureaucracy,” Nagomi had laughed as Kanoa listened intently to the BNN reporter about which decrees were likeliest to pass, which team was gunning for which blessings.
“It’s bureaucracy I’m going to need to understand if you keep playing it,” Kanoa had said, her hand on Nagomi’s chest. “Come now, for years you say I’m not interested enough in blaseball and now it’s too much?”
Nagomi had smiled, threaded a hand in Kanoa’s curls. “Just letting you know that you don’t have to sit and watch the news. It’s all stats. Can be pretty boring.”
That election, the Forbidden Book had opened, and the next season, her son was playing the game. Nothing about the updates were boring when they could decide her family’s fates. Kanoa hasn’t missed a single election in the thirteen prior seasons of blaseball, and she isn’t going to start today.
The Election results begin to load on her phone, and nothing is happening. The day hasn’t changed as the Blessing distributions pop up one at a time - the Wild Low did well for themselves, it seems - just a typical sunny afternoon in the graveyard. One after another the results roll in, and one after another nothing happens.
The fear that Kanoa didn’t allow herself to consider creeps in — that it didn’t work. That all her money, her votes, her sleepless nights were for nothing. That she will have to relearn how to grieve without hope.
Chorby Soul comes back first.
Kanoa had heard the jokes. Chorby had an interface breaking soulscream that made betting on Millennials games irritating, and though celebrating an incineration was bad form especially back in season three, grief was too kind a word for the fans’ reaction to their death. When necromancy was discussed again, the Millennials didn’t want them back exactly for that reason: they were inefficient, difficult to cram into the system. The Garages took Soul instead.
News reports begin to ping in: fire and smoke in Seattle, by the Big Garage, but in the moments following, there is silence. Live updates say that the storm dissipates not long after it forms, leaving behind only the smell of sulfur, and that Arturo Huerta has retreated to the Shadows.
More Wills: Infusions are popular. Exchange slips are delivered. Kanoa waits, and waits, and waits, and the minutes she spends watching the text appear on her screen feels like hours, feels like days, feels like years.
She’s on her knees in front of the grave when it finally happens. The system has had an overload of votes this year, a record number of voters. Kanoa has felt increasingly ill as every new result hasn’t returned a successful Plunder. There are only three teams - three chances - left: the Shoe Thieves, the Georgias, and the Crabs. Her heart is pounding in her ears and her mouth is dry. This feels like the end of an era, a final plea, a prayer. She has done everything she can. The numbers have been tallied and all she can do is wait.
A sudden rush of BNN alerts answers her cries: FIRE AND SMOKE OVER BALTIMORE. PLUNDER. CHORBY SOUL SIGHTED IN BROOKLYN. FIRE AND SMOKE OVER BALTIMORE. All the air leaves Kanoa’s lungs.
The Crabs vote to target York Silk for the plunder. York Silk exits the Hall of Flame.
Kanoa opens her mouth - to cry, to scream, to say, something - and the noise that leaves her is akin to a sob without tears, a sound of pure, ugly emotion, joy and horror and relief and fury all in one, and she bows her head in front of the pile of stones as though she is thinking them, folded in on herself as though the anticipation of her success was the only thing keeping her upright. It worked. The monkey’s paw has curled, and he’s on the Crabs - alongside Nagomi now, the Exchange says - but he’s alive. He’s home. She’ll be able to hold him. She’ll be able to see him, however he returns.
The storm has fizzled out in Baltimore, and when it begins over Hawai’i, understanding hits Kanoa like lightning. The smoke begins over the resurrected player’s new team, but they rise at home.
The wind picks up. The sky darkens. The smell of sulfur and salt fills the air. Kanoa feels a prickle on the back of her neck and stands, turning around as the buried ash filters up from the ground and stings her skin as it joins the rest of the figure slowly rematerializing out of the blackened air. York, even burnt, is recognizable by silhouette alone.
When York is physical, the storm dies. His coloring is pallid, and deep bruises stain the skin beneath his eyes. His dark hair looks wet, clinging to his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, and his eyes are wide, dark, like a deep-water fish. York doesn’t look like a corpse. He doesn’t quite look alive, either. He’s staring at Kanoa in the fading wind, and she’s staring back, holding out her trembling arms.
York, who has always, despite everything, tried to keep her happy, forces the barest hint of a smile, as if to say, Look, see? Dying wasn’t that bad. Don’t worry about me, I’m alright. “Hey, Mom,” he says, and his voice is hoarse - from disuse or something else, something worse, Kanoa can’t tell. “Told you I wouldn’t abandon you.”
Kanoa takes two stumbling steps forward, then another, and as York crosses the rest of the distance she embraces him, her son, and though her face only reaches the crook of his shoulder, she will forever be his mother, his first home. “I love you,” Kanoa whispers, and holds him as close as she can.
York is freezing cold.