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"Truth or illusion, George; you don't know the difference."
"No, but we must carry on as though we know."
— Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)
She woke to the scent of curry, warm and savory, wafting through the cold cabin air. An old woman with soft, hesitant movements placed the bowl on the bedside table, accompanied by a glass of milk. Fiona lay still, her eyes half-lidded, watching the woman retreat as though unaware Fiona had stirred. Her gaze drifted lazily across the room. Two wooden crutches leaned against the bedframe, their polished surface catching the pale winter light. A vase of wilted flowers sat nearby, their brittle petals a reminder of the season. On the dresser was a precarious stack of papers, some marked with handwriting she knew instantly.
His handwriting.
Him.
He.
Where was he?
"Where—?" she croaked, the word scraping against her throat as if dragged over raw stone. It sounded foreign, not hers, as though her voice had been lost in an unfamiliar wilderness. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? The silence had stretched long enough for her to forget the sound of herself.
The mute woman turned, eyebrows raised. She pointed toward the frost-covered window. Fiona shifted her head, squinting at the swirling snow outside. It told her nothing. She looked back, her lips pressed into a sharp, accusing pout. Why was the woman playing this cruel game? But the woman only shook her head, her expression apologetic, and left the room without a sound.
***
The bowl stayed cradled in Fiona's hands long after the curry was gone. The milk remained untouched. She stared into the smooth porcelain, her eyes unfocused, the faint shadow inside unrecognizable as her own reflection. If she looked long enough, maybe she could find him, buried in the depths of ceramic. There was a great big lump in her throat, one which only grew larger the longer she thought of her predicament. Her fault for thinking, she supposed. Her fault for getting hurt, she figured. How did she wind up like this? They were on a mission of course, one like any other. There was some faint bickering here and there. Strained, but nothing unusual. But yes, there had been distraction. Aimless distraction. Then, bam! A gunshot… no, gunshots. Three, to be exact. One to her calf. One lodged in that unfortunate deer. And the last— Where? Where did the last one go? Her breath caught. Oh… oh… she thought, realization settling cold in her chest. The last bullet must’ve—
He entered like a gust of wind, his presence scattering the room's fragile stillness. Snowflakes clung stubbornly to his blonde hair, melting as they met the warmth inside. Without a word, he swept the stack of papers from the dresser and left just as quickly. Fiona watched the empty doorway for a long time, her thoughts adrift. Perhaps she was dead, the last bullet lost somewhere in her heart. Or maybe her eyes had deceived her, maybe he was still in the room with her now. His words had sliced through the air too quickly for her to catch them. He had said something mundane, like, “I haven’t been able to get through to Sylvia. I’ll keep you updated.”
She wondered if this was the first time he’d visited her. Probably not, but her imagination did not lend itself to more exciting fantasies; it had a way of rejecting the counterfeit. Her mind didn’t have the energy for delusion anymore, though the line between what was real and what wasn’t was thinning. Which was which? A sickness, surely. The sooner he left her to her own devices the better. The sooner she could retreat to that pseudo-Twilight world in her head, kneaded enough to feel familiar, demented enough to satisfy her. Truth or illusion, she didn’t know the difference. Well, she knew now. Of course she did. She knew the difference between a man and a door, didn’t she? But who’s to say she’d still know it in a few hours? How could he rely on such a precarious mind out in the field? Who’s to say an “accident” like this won’t happen again… and again and again? And why would anyone keep a liability like her around when there were far more deserving strays to toss the kibble to?
There must be some way to wrench the feeling out from the inside, expel the rotting tooth. It was the late stage of limerence now, where every moment spent with him was retroactively handed over to the imposter, and the more this pestilence carved her out, the more ineffectual she became. And oh, what a spectacle she had made of it. How brash of her to say, “Look at me! Look at me! I’m all worn out— in fact, I need your help. I need you when I am nothing. Understand me without words, without context, without history. I’m asking for a miracle!”
***
“I’m going for a walk. Will you keep an eye on the receiver?” His voice came from somewhere overhead while she sat on the sofa, and then went out like a puff of smoke. Poof. He was already halfway out the door before she stiffly nodded, but he waited just long enough to give himself the vain reassurance. Then he was gone.
The mute woman rocked herself in a chair on the other side of the room, watching them closely. What did she see? One could make the claim that he was being rather careless publicly discussing work related matters in front of a civilian, then again, they were much too far from the realm of civilization to be so painstakingly cautious. Fiona flipped through the crossword puzzles the woman had provided, nestled among a trove of brittle, yellowed newspapers. She pressed her pen to the page, scratching out seven letters: O-C-E-A-N-I-A. A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden and innocent.
F-E-A-T-H-E-R-S.
Oh. The receiver.
She glanced up briefly. Its blinking lights pulsed in a maddening rhythm: red, green, red, green. The only colors in the room, the world. Alternating, never mingling. Mocking.
She lowered her gaze back to the crossword.
C-I-R-C-L-E.
M-I-R-R-O-R.
L-I-G-H-T.
The pen stilled. Fiona set the crossword down.
***
She was gone when he returned. He tossed his coat onto the sofa in a crumpled heap and caught sight of the crossword. Picking it up, he scanned it briefly, his interest half-hearted. His eyes shifted to the receiver; the blinking lights drew a faint frown to his face.
The mute woman approached slowly, balancing another steaming bowl of curry on a platter. Startled, he blinked and stared at her until she nudged the platter toward him.
“Oh,” he muttered, taking it hesitantly. Without a word, he turned and made his way to Fiona’s room. Knocking softly, he pushed the door open.
“Hungry?” he asked, stepping inside.
“What?” Fiona looked up, her face pale and distant.
“Dinner.” He held the platter out to her.
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Careful, it’s hot.”
“I know.”
“Well, then, use the napkin.”
“I will.”
He gave her a pointed look, then lingered near the door, his fingers brushing the frame.
“I see your leg is recovering. That’s good.” He paused, his gaze flicking to the stack of papers on her dresser. “I’m sure you’ve read the reports by now. I didn’t realize the warehouse was encased in metal. If I had...” He stopped, his voice tightening. “I would’ve tried to reach you after we got separated. That’s on me. I’m sorry.”
“…We both tried to reach each other,” she echoed, her eyes still on the platter. “And my attempt got me shot in the leg. What a thrilling symmetry.”
He moved closer, just a fraction. “You’re not the first operative to take a hit in the field. You won’t be the last.”
“Oh, good.” She set the bowl on the side table with a controlled clatter, finally looking up at him. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice was soft, careful. “I’m part of a grand tradition, then. That makes this limp so much easier to swallow.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t afford this self-pity.”
“Self-pity?” The word snapped out of her, and for the first time, she sat forward, her leg protesting the motion. “What do you think this is? A tantrum? Do you think I’m waiting for you to pat me on the head and tell me it’s all okay?”
“I think that you’re looking for someone to blame— when I've already rested my case.”
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. For a long time, neither of them spoke. He stayed where he was, close enough to fill the room, far enough to remind her of the distance. She picked up the bowl again, her hands steady despite the tremor in her chest.
“Where’s the woman?” she asked suddenly, the words almost dissonant.
“She’s outside,” he replied. “Feeding the dog.”
Fiona blinked. “There’s a dog?”
“Apparently.” His tone was flat, disinterested, like the fact of the dog had only occurred to him just now. “It’s small. Loud.”
“Figures,” she said, and her voice was too dry, too light. The curry sat heavy in her lap, and she wished she’d thrown it at him when she had the chance.
He turned to leave. “I’ll look after the receiver,” he said, almost absently. “Try to rest.”
The door closed softly behind him, and the cabin was quiet again, save for the faint, maddening pulse of the receiver in the other room. Fiona leaned back in bed, her gaze drifting to the crossword puzzle on the side table.
She picked up the pen, pressing it too hard against the page as she filled in another word.
C-A-V-I-T-Y.
The ink smeared under her hand, but she didn’t stop.
***
The fire crackled in the hearth, its light spilling across the cabin's cramped living room. Fiona sat curled into the armchair, her body slouched but tense, her ankle propped awkwardly on the ottoman. She traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip—a motion both idle and deliberate. Across from her, he leaned back on the worn sofa, his hands steepled in his lap, his gaze fixed somewhere between her and the receiver that sat on the mantle, blinking in time with their silence.
“You know,” she said suddenly, her voice a slow drawl, “if you stare hard enough, I’m sure it’ll blink faster. Maybe even spell something out for you. A little message from the void.”
He tilted his head, just enough to give her the full weight of his attention. “I was considering it. Thought it might save us the effort of making conversation.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your communion with the divine. What’s it saying so far? Anything riveting?”
“‘Drink less,’ I think,” he replied without missing a beat, nodding at her glass. “Though it might just be jealous. Machines do like attention.”
“Touché. But if I stop drinking, who’ll keep you entertained? The dog?”
“The dog has better manners.” His tone was cool, casual, but his lips twitched as if suppressing something sharper. “It doesn’t taunt.”
“Neither do I,” she shot back, “Unless you count sitting here trying to get you to say something interesting.”
“Oh, forgive me,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “Let me regale you. Did I ever tell you about the time I defused a bomb under a moving train with nothing but a pen and a prayer?”
She raised an eyebrow. “A prayer? That’s new for you.”
“Desperate times,” he replied smoothly, leaning forward to pour himself a drink. The firelight caught the curve of his jaw, the faint shadow of a smile. “Besides, it worked. Here I am, alive and well.”
“Well is a stretch,” she murmured, her gaze flicking to his hands. They were steady, deliberate, pouring the liquor with an ease that irritated her. She looked away, back to the fire. “And alive is debatable.”
“Is that so?” He leaned back again, glass in hand, studying her with an expression that was too neutral to be calculated. “Tell me, Fiona. What’s your definition of ‘alive?’ Or is that too existential for this time of night?”
She tapped her glass against the armrest, her eyes narrowing. “Alive is knowing you’ll feel something tomorrow. Not just… existing out of habit.”
“Ah, feelings,” he said, his voice soft, cutting. “That’s nice.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just a funny thing for you to say. Unusual, rather.” He takes a sip from his glass.
The observation drains the blood from her face. The receiver’s blinking filled the pause between them, an unspoken metronome to their rhythm. Fiona shakes her head. “You really are insufferable, you know that?”
“Only to people who can’t keep up.” He raised his glass slightly, as if to toast her. “So far, you’re doing fine.”
She sank deeper into the chair, the firelight casting shadows on her face. “God help me if this is what fine looks like.”
He chuckled, low and quiet, and for a moment the room felt almost still. Then the receiver beeped once, loud and sharp, breaking the moment.
He glanced at it, his expression unreadable. “There. A message from the void. Satisfied?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stared at the blinking light, the fire’s warmth forgotten. Finally, she said, softly but with precision, “Not in the slightest.”
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