Minthe emigrated from Atlantis to the U.S. right before the quotas were filled. She came with only one suitcase, containing the skirt-suits she’d worn as a young tour guide and her favorite kelp chips (believing that they’d be impossible to find in America, although she’d later be informed they were easily purchased via Amazon). Those were, of course, confiscated.
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My husband was too far away to hear me, but I said it anyway: “I don’t think we should knock.”
I watched him as he stumbled through the tall grass, past the gilded gates that led up to the mansion. I hurried after him, but didn’t run, and kept near the lime trees that lined the path. My nose stung with their scent.
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Ian laid down to sleep on the grass and when he woke up he was human again.
Lana had laid his clothes out in the usual grove: a tie, a button-up shirt, and slacks. Nestled next to the clothes were his loafers, cashmere socks balled up inside. He dressed quickly, although his hands were no longer used to buttons.
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He left me where he found me: the balcony of my mother’s apartment with the smell of adobo wafting in from the windows above, my sneakered feet dangling off the edge. His cape fluttered in the breeze and disappeared over the apartment building across the street, its jagged hem just barely missing a satellite dish.
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