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She slept for a long, long time, her bones safe beneath the earth. The soft parts of her melted away, and the hard parts became harder. The world changed, the stars moved, and she slept. She slept.
When she awoke, it was by bits and bobs. It wasn't like opening her eyes, but instead an awareness that slowly slotted into place. The air was different now. The light was harsher. Where was she? The stars and the earth were gone and small, fleshy animals made noises she had never heard before. She could feel them reaching inside her, but she couldn't. She couldn't feel anything anymore, not really. But they reached inside her all the same, and she couldn't exactly ignore that. She could feel that she should have felt it, and that was the strangest sensation of all.
She was placed in an enclosed space of some sort, a cave maybe, and there were others there with her. They'd become hard as well beneath the earth's embrace. They were all around her, and her stony bones quaked at how enemies had become neighbors.
The air was false here. She couldn't quite puzzle out the specifics, but that much was true. Nothing here was real.
Not even her. Maybe especially not her. Because the closest neighbor of all was the one they'd placed on her neck. It wasn't her head. How could she see without a head? she'd thought, all confusion and alarm. But none of them could see, just like none of them could feel. Not really. There was just awareness, rising in her like the tides, and the sense that she was no longer alone.
Who are you? she wondered. Who were any of them?
I am me, said the Other. And I think I am lost.
They all were, rooted to the false ground sprouted with false grass. They'd all wandered far from home, and none of them were who they'd once been. Enemies were neighbors. Neighbors were heads. Everything was different.
And around them, through them, those strange fleshy creatures milled.
* * *
Humans, she later learned. They were called humans. Or that's what they called themselves. It took a long time for her to learn to make sense of the sounds they made, especially without a head to call her own, but she had all the time in the world these days. They all did.
Back before, she'd felt like time was brief. Like each lungful of air was a gift that could be taken from her at any time. She had a life. She had love. She had children. Now she had none of those things, and still she stood. Time felt different now. She'd died, she thought. Maybe this was how the world felt after you died.
She learned how to listen to the humans, and she learned how to talk to her neighbor. The Other.
Were the trees lush where you lived? she asked. Can you feel the rest of your bones? Did you have children once?
I can’t remember, the Other would answer sometimes. And, No. Maybe.
Can you feel your head? the Other would ask in return. Can you see things far away? Do you know where we are?
No, she answered with some regret. No. No.
Her head had become alien to her. She could not see it or sense it or feel it missing from her body. But there was an odd sense of loss. Of incompletion. She knew it should be there, after all. And it had been replaced with a stranger's.
Sometimes the Other would ask, What are they saying? You understand them, right? What are they talking about? And the other neighbors would go quiet, hushed, and listen to what she had to say. Not all of them could understand the humans. But she could. She'd made a study of it, and now they looked to her like one of the old, wise ones. They were all the same age here. They were all stone. But perhaps she could be wise, one day.
The rains have come and all the children are misbehaving, she might say. Or They're learning about who we are. Were. Once. Or They've found a new one. A new neighbor.
It was always the last of those that got them the most excited. A new voice to join their whispers. A new heart to keep them company. A new mind to help them sort through this very strange predicament.
Her predicament was the strangest of all, she knew. There were two hearts in her body now. Two minds. Two voices emanated from their bones to mingle with the others. She did not know who the Other was, or even what the Other had once been. She was just the Other.
Still, though, she knew that she was lucky. The Other was not a bad neighbor to have, if a neighbor was necessary. The Other was kind and gentle. She sang out Good morning! every day, just like the humans did, and she called Goodbye! to the last of the children as they left the cave. The Other asked her questions about what her life and been once, and she returned the favor even if the Other had a memory more tattered and scarred than her own. They murmured echoes at each other over and over, scared they might forget.
The Other was an unwanted neighbor, but she was a friend. They were both very lucky in that.
Until they weren't.
What are they saying? the Other whispered to her, and the neighbors went silent.
She listened very hard to the bickering humans, felt a queer tingling down the sloping lines of herself as she tried to make sense of their harsh words. They've noticed, she finally said. They've noticed that we're wrong.
That wasn't a Brontosaurus, they were saying -- that was the word the humans had always used up to this point -- they were just two skeletons glued together. A shoddy arts and crafts project, not a real dinosaur.
I am Apatosaurus, she said to the Other. And you are Camarasaurus.
Oh, the Oth -- no, no, Camarasaurus said faintly. What will they do?
The tingling grew more pronounced, and somehow she knew that if she'd still had a heart, it would be pounding. I don't know.
* * *
For a long time, the answer was "nothing". The signs in front of their exhibit were changed and the tour guides had a new spiel. Apatosaurus and Camarasaurus curled tight together in a way that didn't have much to do with physicality, and they whispered. What they had been. What they were now, to each other. What would become of them in the days to come.
The construction crews came, but they didn't bring a new neighbor. They held a new skull between them. Apatosaurus was aware of it in the way she was aware of all things around her, but she couldn't feel it. They said it was hers, but it no longer felt like a part of her. It was a dead thing. Stone, but not bone. She could not feel the shape of it, the heft. All she felt was the panic of her neighbor, her Other, her Camarasaurus. The true part of her.
They're going to take me away, aren't they? she asked. Where will I go?
She tried to keep the tenor of her voice comforting. I don't know. They haven't said.
I'll be all alone, she wailed. You'll be so far away.
I'm sorry, she said, like she had control over this, over any of it. Of her bones, of her neighbors, of any of the awareness she held in this strange, new world. I'm sorry.
They took her away, Camarasaurus. The not-her her. It felt like a part of her was being torn away even though she knew it was actually being restored. The new head sat there atop her neck, an alien thing. It was not a neighbor. It was not herself. What was it?
Who are you? she wondered.
But there was no answer.
* * *
Time passed. The world went silent. The children still raced between exhibits, researchers still clucked over her bones, her neighbors still whispered to each other in their hushed tones. But she heard none of it. It was as if her very small world had dulled around her, vibrant colors and raucous voices fading to ash in her mind.
There were no more good mornings. There were no more goodbyes. There was just the quiet echo of whispers against white walls.
Time, though, long and short as it is, continued to move forward. A new neighbor arrived, and it felt strange, strange. Familiar and yet not. The unknown known.
Hello? she asked, tentative. Who are you?
A queer sort of silence, heavy and waiting. It was as if the new neighbor was still taking everything in. Perhaps it was not yet fully awake. Then, quietly, I am Camarasaurus.
Her friend. Her Other. No. Not quite. The tenor of her voice was wrong. The blurry edges of her thoughts. A sister, perhaps. A child.
It’s very nice to meet you, she said, and hoped she did not sound too eager. Rocks were staid and rocks could love, but they should not be eager. Here, we say ‘good morning’.
Good morning, this new Camarasaurus said, slow, like she was still feeling the words out.
Good morning, she replied, and perhaps it was.
* * *
Far away, in a quiet, quiet place, Camarasaurus rested on the edge of sleeping. The room was much smaller here, and she was placed in a smaller box still. Not see-through like some of the neighbors had been housed in. Opaque little boxes that slid in and out as the humans pleased.
The Big Bone Room they’d called it, but she didn’t feel big. She remembered the wide open space of her new-old home, and she remembered Apatosaurus. She had been so big. She had been larger than life.
Good morning, she said quietly each time her box was slid out. But there was no answering call. No silent questions in the dead of night.
Until one day, a dozen days in, when she heard the smallest of voices from a box to her right. Good morning, it said. I am Apatosaurus. Who are you?
I am you, she thought to herself. I am me.
I am your friend.