Page 20 of The Invisible Roommate

After three buses and a taxi, he was exhausted, and he white-knuckled the railing that separated him from the surf. All the while, he stewed and plotted. Visions of his laughing classmates crested through his mind repeatedly, sinking him deeper into an endless vat of rage.

Up ahead, Iping Island appeared out of the mist as if it were a mirage. Backed by ashen clouds, the white stilted shacks, weathered bobbing boats, and netted crab pots took on a menacing hue that matched his burgeoning inner darkness.

He’d heard of this island first in an environmental science course in college. The professor had taken an entire class to talk about a recent news story involving a hurricane that was taking shape in the ocean with a path cutting directly across Iping, which would have been devastating, given the island’s landmass had already decreased by two-thirds over the years. The government was getting involved to funnel money into a jetty or a seawall to keep this piece of history from vanishing altogether, but as with most things, it was taking too long to gather funding, requiring too many votes, etcetera.

Only fitting that Emory would carry out his invisibility research on a body of land primed to blink right off the map.

The island was remote, only accessible by boat or small private plane, and barely had cell service. It was the perfect place to cordon himself off and get serious.

A few miles later, they swanned into the dock. Emory ignored the other families trying to get off. He struck them all with a ferocious glare as he disembarked first with Marvel Jr.’s cage covered from prying eyes.

Beside the path into town, a WELCOME TO VIRGINIA sign was staked into the grass. Below the greeting, it read VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS. Love was the furthest thing from his mind. Disgusted, he spat in the direction of the sign, and his spit clanged against the metal. Paces away, islanders in golf carts gave him dirty looks, which he marched right past, trash bag dragging on the ground behind him, threatening to rip open with each step.

After pulling out his crinkled paper map meant for tourists, he sagged when he located his hastily booked lodging. The house was clear across the island.

Nearby, a fat orange cat sat on the corner post of a knobby white fence, eyeing Emory suspiciously. Sweat already beading on his brow from the humidity, Emory let out an unfriendly hiss, which the cat reciprocated before losing its courage and scampering off.

The Victorian house was far more run-down than it had looked in the sunshine-bathed pictures on the rental listing he’d seen online, but Emory had no better options.

An old white woman in capris and a tank top answered the door after his fourth impatient knock. “What’s in the bag?” Regina asked by way of introduction.

“My stuff,” he said.

“Odd choice of luggage.” She sipped from a can of Diet Dr Pepper. “You Emory?”

“I am.” His feet ached, his lower back was slick with sweat, and his head bobbled like it couldn’t hold itself up. All he wanted was to rest.

He hadn’t slept properly in over twenty-four hours. The micronaps he took on the buses were minimal and fitful. One bump or window bang and he jolted upright. He passed her a wad of cash in the amount agreed upon in their email exchange. “May I have my key?”

“Is that a cage?” she asked while pocketing the money without counting it.

“Yes,” he said, figuring that a lie would not move the interaction along.

“No pets,” she said.

“It didn’t say that on the listing.” He would know. He had a photographic memory.

“It didn’t? Well, it should’ve,” she said. “No pets.”

“It’s not a pet.”

“You just carry around an empty cage, then?” she asked.

As if Marvel Jr. knew they were discussing him, he let out a squeak-squeak. “He’s not a pet. He is an experiment. I am a pharmacologist and physiologist. You wouldn’t want to obstruct extremely important research, would you?” Part of him assumed this would shut her up right quick.

“Probably not, but I wouldn’t want a radioactive mouse running loose in my house, either,” she retorted, standing a little taller, which didn’t do much, given her short stature.

“He is not radioactive.” Marvel Jr. was perfectly healthy despite all the bouncing around they’d done to get there.

“Show me.” She reached for the sheet-covered cage, but he tugged it back. Marvel Jr. gave a sound that bordered on a whimper.

“It’s not a pretty sight,” he said, because it was the truth. “Also, he is very skittish. I don’t need you scaring him.”

“You think I’m scary?” she asked, almost in challenge.

Needing to get off this porch and off his swollen feet, he ignored the question. “He will remain caged. I promise.”

“I don’t even know you. How can I trust your promise?” She crushed her empty soda can in her fist.