Page 69 of What Rough Beast

In my lap the puppy stretches, yawns, long pink tongue rolling it, brushing my wrist, the scars from Panda’s teeth, a place his mouth has already been. Because this is Panda, I have no doubt. Regenerated, reborn, resurfaced, making his way back up to us over time, like the rocks in Widow’s garden, like . . .

“Widow,” I ask, voice quavering. “What’s in the egg?”

She doesn’t answer, eyes hard on mine, waiting for me to say it.

“It’s Typhus, isn’t it?”

Her eyes narrow, and I say it again, this time as a statement.

“It’s Typhus.”

She nods once, silently.

“Oh my God,” I say, the shaking beginning again as the blanket quivers, the sleeping puppy in my lap vibrating along with me.

“Oh my God,” I say again, eyes wide, hands opening and closing, looking for something to hold on to. Something that makes sense.

“They brought it over with them,” Widow says. “From the old country, a jar of dirt from the Black Forest. This is old magic, Ava. Ancient, even,” she says, resting her hand on the cat’s cage. One black paw reaches up, bats at Widow’s fingers, the white film binding the cat’s toes together evident as they separate, and her claws extend.

“It was all passed down by mouth, family tradition, way too dangerous to write out, you see?” Widow asks.

I nod, and she goes on. “The first Typhus to come over, he knew from his father, told them what to do when it was clear he was dying. They put the Black Forest dirt in with him, when he went in the ground.”

“That’s why there’s a gate on the Typhus graves,” I say, realizing. “You have to be able to go in and get the egg when it, when it . . .”

“When he comes back, yes.” Widow nods. “And some of the dirt, to bury with the next one, restart the cycle.”

“So, they’re all . . . him?”

“I don’t really know,” Widow admits. “They come out different each time. They don’t look or act like each other, don’t carry the memory of the one who came before them.”

“But they carry the name,” I say.

“It’s important, yes,” Widow says. “Typhus, the one that rose from nothing. We don’t know why it’s only him, but it is. They tried the dirt with Lister. Dystonia too. It was . . . not good.”

“Not good,” I repeat, my eyes flickering to the incubator. “But this is?”

“I don’t know if it’s good or bad, Ava,” Widow says. “I just know that it’s what the Zedekers do. When we lost my brother we were desperate. We were scared to put him into the family plot because of everything that was going on at the time. We dug up as much dirt as we could from another Typhus, hoped it was enough.”

“And stuck him in the compost,” I say. “And you wonder why people think you’re weird?”

“No,” Widow says, matter-of-factly. “I’ve never wondered.”

On the desk, my phone vibrates. Another text from Micah flashes across the screen.

You okay?

And another, immediately following.

Sorry if I’m being weird.

Micah is the least weird thing in my life right now, something I didn’t think was possible when I woke up this morning. I want to answer him but need to focus on Widow, on what’s in the incubator—which is apparently her brother. Kind of.

“Okay,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “So, all of your Typhus men are restored from the original? And they come back when . . . ?”

“When we need them to, it seems. When we’ve got a male they’re dormant.”

“But your mom and dad—”