Chapter 14: The Fitting

The world outside was a flat, bleached scroll of highway and sky. Then a sign, stark and wooden, broke the monotony: PRAIRIE DOG TOWN – 5 mi. A rectangle of promise for families in minivans, a monument to kitsch, a landmark of the utterly ordinary. But for me, riding in our rolling confession, it was a psychic tripwire. The thought of it, the giggling children, the pointing fingers, the sun hats and ice cream cones, all orbiting a colony of frantic, comical rodents, cracked something open inside me. The world was continuing. Its cheerful, banal indifference was a kind of violence.

My hand had been traveling, as instructed, over the new landscape of Ash. For miles now, since we left the motel, Megan and Claire had guided me like cartographers annotating a map only I could touch. Just inside the hip bone, feel that? Her stomach flutters. Press there, behind the knee, see the tiny jump? Ash was quiet against me, pliant, emitting a soft hum of acceptance. I was learning her curves, her responses, her silent language.

But that sign yanked me out of the mapping. It flung me back into a screaming dissonance. Here I was, my fingers tracing the sensitive hollow of my sister-turned-doll’s inner thigh, while out there, families planned their silly, normal day. The collision was unbearable.

I turned, my gaze skipping over Ash’s serene profile to find Claire. “Claire,” I said, my voice too loud in the wagon’s hum. The question had been burning coal in my gut since dawn. “What happened ... once we got to the room last night? After ... everything?” I gestured vaguely with my free hand toward her, toward all of them. “I mean, from looking at you now ... there’s no difference. It’s like you were...”

I fumbled, hunting for the old, impossible word.

Claire turned her head slowly. Her eyes held no anger, no wound. Just a patient, profound exhaustion. She looked at me, then let her gaze drift down to my right hand, the one possessively splayed across Ash’s lower belly. A ghost of a smirk touched her lips.

“You’re looking to say ‘clothed,’ Sam,” she stated. Her voice was diagnostic, devoid of judgment. “‘Dressed.’ ‘Fabric.’ Something to cover this up.”

Before I could protest, my body decided for me. A cold, sharp dread seeped into my bones. I’d crossed a line, and the realization was a physical shock. My panicked eyes darted back to Claire.

That’s when I saw it.

With a detached, absent-minded efficiency, Claire let her fingers slip briefly between her thighs, checking. I saw the flicker of recognition on her face. A wave of visceral unease rolled through me, so potent that my hand on Ash acted on a confused instinct. Instead of retreating, my fingers pressed more firmly into the softness of her stomach, seeking an anchor. Ash, feeling the shift, pressed closer, subtly arching her back, a silent, perfect yield.