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Before I enter the kitchen, the bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nose, mixed with the aroma of browning batter sizzling in a frying pan. Jacqueline, clad in her burgundy silk robe with wide and flowy sleeves, stands at the stove, cooking a batch of pancakes. The high-gloss cabinetry under the counter reflects her pair of toned legs, that end in pink slippers. Seated at the table, past the fruit bowl centerpiece that adds a splash of organic color, Nairu has hidden her face in a dinosaur picture book, ignoring the glass of milk set in front of her.

Jacqueline welcomes me with one of her disarming smiles.

“There you are, darling.” She slides a spatula beneath the frying pancake and skillfully flips it onto the pile on a plate. After withdrawing the spatula, she points it in the direction of the coffee maker at the end of the counter. “Your morning boost awaits.”

As I start to move, Nairu lets out an anxious cry universally understood as, “Wait, let me do it.” She puts down her book, hops off the chair, and hurries to grab the coffee mug from the dip tray. When she turns, her grinning face, framed by messy chestnut hair, greets me. Her amber eyes hold a depth of stories untold, the memory of a world that only she remembers. She’s wearing pajamas striped in mustard yellow and cream, patterned with cartoon pigs, bears, and whales amid five-pointed stars.

“That’s a smile of pride,” Jacqueline says. “Just by watching me, she figured out that she had to pick a fresh capsule from the dispenser, put it in, wait for the machine’s ready light, then push the button to brew. Isn’t it amazing? I might be biased, thinking of our lovely girl as a genius, but you may have come upon a prodigy of her time.”

I could comment that humans have been anatomically modern for hundreds of thousands of years, capable of formulating the same thoughts and learning the same skills. And I’m no different: I follow Jacqueline’s instructions, hardly understanding what magic transmogrifies those capsules into the dark, bitter, caffeinated nectar that I can’t live without. Yet, even if Nairu had handed me a pebble instead of this coffee mug that warms my palms, I’d be moved too, longing to wrap our girl in a tight hug until I risked smothering her.

“Thank you, Nairu,” I say in a choked voice, “for wanting to improve my day.”

“Alright, pancakes done,” Jacqueline announces. “Sit down, mes chéries.”

When mommy lifts the towering plate, Nairu’s eyes widen, and she scurries back to her seat. I turn toward mine across from our Paleolithic child, but I’m drawn to the sight of the stainless-steel refrigerator, whose door displays a collection of drawings attached with magnets. The pictures, rendered in crayon, depict bears, mammoths, ground sloths, a triceratops, pines, pastries, a stop sign, a bus, the Mount Igueldo tower, Jacqueline and me holding hands. At the rate we’re accruing drawings, we will need to rent a storage unit.

As I lower myself into the chair, my sore body complains. I don’t know how my hip remains intact with the poundings I receive. The culprit, Jacqueline, has set down the stack of golden-brown pancakes, their edges darker and crisp. I lift the mug to my lips and take a gulp. A lazy fire spreads in my stomach, chasing away the chill of the early morning, the creep of age. Coffee and freshly-cooked pancakes: a classic breakfast that every human from the Paleolithic through history can enjoy.

Jacqueline spears the top two pancakes with a fork and slides them onto Nairu’s plate. Mommy picks up the syrup and chocolate bottles.

“What do you want to top the pancakes with, mon bébé?” She holds up the plastic bottles, exaggerating her gestures to bridge the language gap. “Syrup, or chocolate?”

A giggle bubbles up from Nairu’s throat before she jabs her finger at the latter bottle.

“Chocolate!”

I serve myself a couple of pancakes, then reach for the syrup bottle while Jacqueline keeps busy browning Nairu’s treat further. As I pour the viscous amber, it settles in glossy, deflating puddles on top of the first golden disk, and trickles down the sides to pool on the plate.

I slice through the pancake, the fork gliding effortlessly, and scoop up a fluffy, syrup-drenched piece. I take a bite. My mouth floods with the caramel-like flavor of syrup, blended with those of vanilla and nutmeg.

Outside, bird chirping announces the imminent birth of a new day, that for those avian fiends will be comprised of confusion, mating rituals, and a frantic search for food to feed themselves and their helpless hatchlings. In our kitchen, I hear the clatter of cutlery on plates, vocalizations like “mm-hmmm,” and gentle glugs. At times a dog’s bark, or the rumble of a car’s engine, filters through the balcony door to remind me that we aren’t alone.

Dollops of chocolate have landed on Nairu’s pajama shirt in blots and streaks. Her lips, chin, and nose are smeared with the sticky substance, while her cheeks bulge as if she has stuffed herself after starving for days. Suddenly, her eyes clamp shut, and violent convulsions seize her small frame. Out of her mouth shoots a rainbow-hued gush that splatters onto the table, the stack of pancakes, the fruit bowl, my own breakfast. Solid forms, the size of action figures, have surged with the flood and bounced off the table, the plates, the fruits, or the spongy pancakes: woolly mammoths, mastodons, stag-moose, ground sloths, giant beavers, saber-toothed cats, short-face bears. Some of the miniature beasts lie injured or dead; others stagger to their feet, waddle around in a daze, or shake their shaggy, sodden pelts, flinging rainbow-colored droplets everywhere.

Hunched over, I prop my elbows on either side of my plate, and rub my temples in circles to dispel the vision. My heartbeat has accelerated, my stomach churns ominously. Jacqueline, seated along the long side of the table, reaches over to enfold my right hand in her own.

“Are you alright, mon amour?”

I straighten up and lower my hands. My gaze falls upon an ivory nightgown framed by the V-neck of her burgundy robe, and adorned with lace trimmings in a floral pattern. The silky fabric, that must glide over her skin like a lover’s fingers, clings to mommy’s tantalizing cleavage.

“I had one of my moments,” I say, “but I feel fine already.”

Nairu, engrossed in her dinosaur picture book, pushes a piece of pancake into her mouth. Her striped pajamas remain unspoiled.

Jacqueline caresses the neckline of my cardigan, tracing the stitching.

“I must say, you’re looking quite chic today.”

“Yeah? Says someone who could wear a potato sack and still enchant. Anyway, I can’t rely on hoodies forever. I would have preferred to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, ‘Let’s kill our boss,’ but alas, I haven’t dared to order such a customized garment.”

Jacqueline knits her eyebrows in worry.

“Let’s focus on staying out of trouble, shall we? You’ve been carrying more tension lately when it comes to work. Is… our boss putting extra pressure on you?”

I take a deep breath as I run my fingers through my hair. I’m no closer to figuring out what machine I’m supposed to destroy before it rips the universe apart, but I won’t ruin the sanctity of this family by bringing the apocalypse into our dynamics: I must shoulder the responsibility alone.

“No, I’d say he’s burdening me with the usual amount of pointless programming tasks.”

“But you can offload some of them on Jordi, can’t you? How are you two getting along these days?”

I get a flash of that intern of ours, with his ever-neat red hair and glasses, always dressed in a self-imposed uniform of crisp white shirts and tailored black trousers. His youthful, freckled skin, along with that habit of referring to me as his senior, makes me feel as if I should start collecting a pension and oiling my knees, or whatever the hell old people do. But I’d rather not spend my spare time dwelling on Jordi any more than I would on the office furniture.

“Now that I’m getting acquainted with that ravishing Irish form of yours, the epitome of redheads, every other redhead should have spontaneously combusted in shame.”

Although Jacqueline laughs, my body stiffens and my eyes widen in panic as I glance at Nairu, who’s unaware of Jacqueline’s shapeshifting. Our antediluvian wonder is taking a long draught of milk. When she puts the glass down, she licks away her milk mustache while her gaze darts back and forth between her mommies.

Jacqueline props her chin on the heel of her palm.

“One of these days we’ll need to be careful with our words around Nairu, but I’m afraid that day is a long way off.” She straightens up and lets out a squeak of delight. “You’re so cute, mon petit ange!”

Jacqueline scoots over to cup Nairu’s face and smooch her, prompting a fit of giggling from the girl.

In this morning of pancakes and mammals surging from a mouth, a comet-like flare is forming within me.

“Anyway, Jordi is decent enough. I’d prefer if he didn’t exist, but I think that of most people. It’s always been a struggle to care about anything, to feel connected to anyone, even myself. These days, though, whenever I’m chained to my computer at work, I find myself thinking about you and Nairu, hoping you’re enjoying yourselves. That makes the world keep spinning even when it’s crumbling apart.”

Jacqueline’s smile fades into a thoughtful expression. She scoots toward me and reaches for my hand, but my cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my trousers and starts playing Chopin’s Nocturne, the second alarm of the morning. Time to make it through another day in this harsh, unforgiving universe without going insane.

Once I silence the alarm, I gulp down the remainder of my coffee, then put the mug in the dishwasher. Nairu calls out “Eide,” the name she baptized me with, drawing attention to her picture book. A double-page illustration depicts a herd of diplodocus, their long necks swaying as they cross a stream. She pokes and babbles at one of the flesh-and-bone catenaries that end in a head with a slender snout, a narrow jaw, and lateral eyes.

“Yes,” I say. “Can you believe that millions of years ago, some creatures were even more astonishing than your Ice Age marvels? You know, my first memory was of waking up after a surgery. During the hospital stay, my mother bought me a plastic triceratops. It seemed magical. I wonder what happened to it…”

Nairu’s cheeks dimple in a pure smile. Her amber eyes are alive with a spirit that never dims.

I ruffle her chestnut locks tenderly.

“Goodbye, ma fille.”

Nairu waves back at me as Jacqueline, her hands on my shoulders, steers me toward the front door.

From now on, until that one day when the end comes, how many times will our family sit around a table to share a meal? Once Nairu masters the language, how will she take to learning board games? The three of us, in competitive or cooperative formats, will run a zoo, colonize Mars, evolve our ancient civilizations, build our post-apocalyptic nations, fight against eldritch horrors. As cyberpunk runners, blazing through corporate servers while evading countermeasures, we’ll finally defeat Shadowcluster.

“I never heard of that memory before,” Jacqueline says warmly.

“Well,” I push through my constricted throat, my voice a raspy whisper, “I don’t like to remember things.”

I open the front door. Jacqueline cups my face and wraps my mouth in a chocolatey, syrupy kiss. When she pulls back, her cobalt-blues shine through the ivory-white blur of her features.

“Remember that, Leire. We’ll be here when you come back.”

The door closes with a thud behind me. Alone in the gloom of the landing, I start descending the stairs, but my legs feel unsteady enough that I grab hold of the cold handrail. My heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell, mingling with a muffled conversation coming from some apartment.

As I turn a corner, a liquid drips on my right hand. I stop and glance up; no ceiling leaks, none that I can see in the dim light. Warm streams are coursing down my cheeks. One trickles over the curve of my upper lip and slides into my mouth. It tastes salty.

I’m neither depressed nor miserable. So why am I weeping?

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Author’s note: today’s songs are “A.M. 180” by Grandaddy, “Good Ol’ Boredom” by Built to Spill, and “はるなつあきふゆ” (“Spring Summer Autumn Winter”) by Ichiko Aoba.

I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and four videos. Check them out.

Are you too lazy to read, and would prefer to listen to this chapter instead? Then check out the audiochapter.

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The amber-and-gold glow of dawn bathes a bearded man clad in animal furs. He’s standing barefoot on grass that glistens with dew, his rugged figure framed by the maw of a cave. The man’s face bears the marks of the sun and wind, and his thick beard is matted with traces of last night’s campfire. Around his neck hangs a necklace of teeth and bones.

As the man squints against the rising sun, he raises a steaming cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip of the bitter brew. When he lowers his gaze, a jolt of surprise shakes him, causing his hands to jerk and the coffee to splash over the rim of his cup. His eyes widen, his mouth falls agape, the tendons in his neck stiffen. A shaggy, hulking ground sloth slams against the man, thrusting him backwards into the cave. The steaming cup sails in an arc through the air, trailing streaks and droplets of coffee that gleam orange in the sunrise.

The warm weight of a body is draped over me like a heated blanket. Two hard nubs are poking my upper back as a petite bosom presses against me, and more conspicuously, a pulsating shaft is pumping inside the slippery channel of my vagina.

I stir. Although my eyelids peel open, either I have gone blind or the rolling shutters have sealed the bedroom in blackness.

Soft lips nuzzle the crook of my neck in kisses that coax ticklish shudders through my spine. I feel the rise and fall of her chest, along with the beating of her heart.

“Good morning, ma chérie,” says a light and airy voice, high as the upper notes on a musical scale.

My breath hitches in my throat, my muscles tense up. I’m trapped in this person’s grip: she has wrapped an arm under my breasts, and with her other arm, she has caught me in a headlock. Who the fuck is fucking me?!

As my panic escalates, my mind paints a picture on the canvas of darkness: vibrant, wavy copper hair cascading down; a constellation of freckles dusted over porcelain skin; coral-pink, well-hydrated lips like velvety rose petals. I relax, then lean back into Jacqueline’s embrace just as one of her hands glides down to caress my abdomen.

“And what a beautiful morning it is,” she purrs.

“D-did you fall asleep with your dick on?” I utter in a voice raspy with sleep.

My ear fills with soft giggles, the tinkling of tiny bells.

“More like passed out, after I drained myself deep inside you. No wonder I slept so soundly. Today I have woken up snuggled up to ma moitié, my erection nestled between her ass cheeks, and I figured that I could help her start the day off right.”

She’s rocking her pelvis, prodding the length of her penis inside me with a friction that brings forth a wash of slippery juices.

“Ah, ça c’est bon…” she murmurs, her voice quivering with the rhythm of her thrusts.

“Wh-whenever you grow that dick of yours, you turn into a wild beast.”

“Don’t you love to wake up to the feeling of mommy’s cock plowing your insides?”

“Of course I do. I purely pointed out a fact.”

“You’re right, though. I become a wild animal driven by the need to hold you tight and fill you up with cum. And that, mon bébé, is what I intend to do.”

As her throbbing hardness grinds inside my velvet chamber in an undulating motion, rubbing against every fold and groove, pleasure rolls up from my loins in delicious waves. A hand fondles my right breast, kneading its plump flesh. Her fingertips trace the pebbled surface of my areola, and when she pinches the nipple, a bolt of ecstasy lances through me. Her hot tongue travels upwards along my neck, leaving a trail of fire. Her lips close over my earlobe, which she nibbles in electric prickles.

Sighs and whimpers keep escaping from my throat. I reach for the back of her head and intertwine my fingers with her silky locks.

Jacqueline’s hand slithers down from my breast, along the concave plain of my abdomen. Folding my right leg, I plant my heel on her thigh to offer better access. Her hand reaches the patch of curls above my slit and begins to rub circles on my turgid clit. Meanwhile, her pulsing shaft withdraws with squelches, sluicing my arousal out and spattering it onto my inner thighs, only to plunge deep again. The furnace-like heat inside me is coiling tightly. Her swollen glans nudges my cervix, making my toes curl. The muscles of my pussy clamp around her in rhythmic spasms as if trying to suck her deeper.

I attempt to muffle my whimpering moans with the pillow, but Jacqueline’s other hand, still securing a headlock, coaxes my face towards hers. Our lips lock, and her tongue slides against mine in a velvety dance. I can’t help but moan into her mouth. Once she pulls away with a wet smack, she speaks breathlessly.

“Oh, I wish I could stare into your puppy eyes now, mon trésor, at that face distorted by lust-glazed adoration. I can’t wait to see your belly swell and your breasts engorge with milk to feed our child.”

Our child? We can’t have a child of our own. It’s not driven by the fear of miscarriage or labor fatality alone, serious as those risks may be: the spare bedroom where Jacqueline filmed some of her camming sessions has become Nairu’s room. Would we compel our Paleolithic artist to endure a screaming baby and piles of soiled diapers just so Jacqueline and I could experience the luxury of a biological offspring? What about our second child’s individuality, forced to share a bedroom growing up? Well, we could move into a bigger home, like a castle; my wealthy shapeshifter could afford it, and if necessary, I’d pester my interdimensional stalkers into paying for the renovation fees. But a baby produced from our combined genes would be ruined by a legacy of sexual deviancy. Even worse, he or she may inherit my anxiety, my intrusive thoughts, my obsessive tendencies, my self-loathing, my depression, my compulsive masturbation. That kid would be doomed to a lifetime of misery. And what if I become the sort of mother who locks herself in the bathroom with a bottle of scotch? It should be illegal to give birth in a world that is falling apart, a world from which I’ve looked forward to removing myself.

One lucky spermatozoon belonging to my French-speaking, child-adoring, shapeshifting secretary, as well as on-and-off cam girl, would pierce my egg, implanting the embryonic progenitor of an uncharted genus within my womb, a cradle that might call forth an entity hitherto unknown: perhaps an ice-breathing chimera from a prehistoric environment so distant that its memory was erased from the earth. This fetus would drain life-giving nutrients and oxygen from my body, transforming my blood into sludge and my heart into a stone like my mother did to my father, like she did to me since I emerged from her vagina squirming and screaming in indignation. Such a parasite wouldn’t wait for post-partum psychosis to prolong my agony; given the chance, it would slit open my midsection and crawl out of my guts like a creature of legend: winged, multi-legged, clawed, and with a maw of serrated teeth sharp enough to tear through the fabric of reality.

Oh, who am I kidding. Last Friday at the office, I had trouble concentrating on my code because I kept picturing the sweat glistening on mommy’s ivory-white skin, the smooth ridges of her toned thighs, the jiggle of her breasts, the roundness of her ass in my hands, and my nose bleeding again from the exertion of sucking her cock. My fingers itched with the desire to type dirty messages into her DMs and send photos of my wet cunt. I long to be ravaged into submission in the missionary position, in cowgirl, on all fours. I’m a slut-lady who serves mommy’s mammoth member, and I can’t wait for her to commandeer me as a container to concoct cum-sticky creamsicles.

Jacqueline is panting, her breathing, ragged and moist, tickling the shell of my ear. Her arms are wrapped tightly around me, pressing me closer. Her heart pounds against my back. Her cockhead batters the back of my vagina as her fingertips strum my engorged clit with growing urgency, milking waves of tingly sparks out of my nerves. I’m drooling into the pillow, pinned against the mattress, caught in a vice of bliss. I clasp my arms around hers and hold on tight. Mommy will splatter her gluey seed into me soon, maybe while twitching on top of me and whispering enticing filth.

“You’ve been loving the daily doses of mommy milk,” Jacqueline whispers, “haven’t you, mon ange?”

I turn my head enough to unmuffle myself.

“More than you know.”

“Then beg me to breed you.”

“P-please, mommy, make me your broodmare. Fill me up with your fertile spunk until I explode.”

Her breath catches in her throat.

“My love,” she pants, “you make it difficult to control myself. Don’t worry, mommy is about to give you a bellyful of babies.”

The bed creaks and groans while Jacqueline’s hips hammer at my ass with violent fervor, in meaty, echoing slaps. The pressure within me builds and builds, swelling to a fever pitch. I’m writhing, mewling. When the dam bursts and a flood of pleasure rushes through me, a sprinkle of stars flashes against the blackness. I quake from head to toe, overcome by the euphoric tsunami, but I still feel the veins of Jacqueline’s cock throbbing against my clutching walls as its length twitches. With her face buried in the crook of my neck, she lets out a long, shaky sigh, and the spasms of her climax seize her in waves. Hot gushes of her cream must be splashing deep inside me in ropey spurts.

When our orgasms ebb away, our breaths have synchronized, and our skins are melding into one lascivious, dewy whole. A peace shimmers inside me like the sunlit surface of a still lake.

Jacqueline’s fingertips draw swirls on my lower abdomen with a delicate, feathery touch. Her shrunken shaft remains lodged within me.

“Do you think I’m greedy, mon coeur?” she asks, her voice honeyed with contentment. “You’ve given me such a sweet child to love and nurture, but I want another one made of us both.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t leave me to fend off for myself in the streets.”

“How could I ever abandon my darling? You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.” Jacqueline caresses with her warm palm the stretch of skin between my bellybutton and pubes, as if rubbing a pregnant belly. “What do you think it’s going to be? A boy or a girl?”

“That’s assuming that the kid can’t turn into one or the other at will.”

“Oh dear. If so, she better figure it out only after she turns eighteen. What a complicated childhood would await our little person otherwise.”

“We might also end up with a genderless blob, like sentient pudding.”

Jacqueline giggles, her breath hot against my neck.

“Seriously though,” I say, “I do hope it’s a girl. I wouldn’t know how to handle a boy.”

“Oh, I know it already, Leire. It’s a girl.”

“Well, if it isn’t, let’s not try to turn him into one. My parents screwed me up enough; I wouldn’t want to do the same to another being.”

Babies, with their squishy cheeks and button noses, with their flailing limbs and drooling mouths, fling sticky mash on people when they aren’t pissing and shitting themselves, but they don’t intend to be rude; they just want for someone to wipe their bottom and put a nipple to their lips. The worst thing in the world, besides having your teeth torn out by rabid dogs, is forcing your child to confront the alienating forces of society alone. Fret not: Jacqueline and I will stand alongside him or her, safeguarding our spawn against the raiders and cannibals of the wastes.

Piano notes of bell-like clarity, cascading like crystal droplets, light up the darkness with an ethereal touch. However, that glow comes from my cellphone’s screen, resting on the nightstand beside Jacqueline. One of these days I’ll change my alarm melody; it’s unfair to associate Chopin’s Nocturnes with the mundane dread of having to wake up for work.

“Merde…” Jacqueline grumbles. “Time to get up, mon lapin.”

She twists her right arm out from under the covers, and turns enough to reach over. The melody cuts off; she must have swiped across the touchscreen. Paired with a faint electronic sound, blackness descends on us again.

I could try to convince myself that I imagined the alarm going off, that I can look forward to hours in the warmth of Jacqueline’s embrace.

“Let’s pretend for a while that everyone other than you, Nairu and I have died.”

Jacqueline presses a kiss on my temple.

“Believe me, I’d rather you stay in bed all day with a pillow tucked under your hips, letting gravity do its work.”

I sigh.

“I guess I have to play along with the farce of normal life, one pointless website gadget at a time.”

Jacqueline disentangles herself gently, withdrawing her left arm from under me. She unplugs my vagina with a moist slurp. In a rustle of bedclothes, the weight of her body lifts from the mattress. Her warmth won’t linger long.

I roll over toward Jacqueline, then grope around for the switch of the nightstand lamp. When it clicks on, its light brushes across the wood-grained surface of the furniture, revealing its dark-espresso finish.

As I blink my bleary eyes against the brightness, I get a glimpse of a fiery copper mane mussed by sleep and sex, of sienna-colored freckles scattered over the milky porcelain of a lithe figure, that of a swimmer who may have emerged from a river, or the sea. Instantly she shifts into the taller, hourglass shape of Jacqueline-but-French. I want to bite into that plump derrière.

Her arms sweep upwards in a fluid motion to reach overhead, and the muscles in her arms and arched back tense as she stretches. A groan of comfort escapes her mouth.

Jacqueline gazes down at me over her shoulder, her cobalt-blues alight, her lips parted in an amorous smile.

“Go take a shower, ma lumière. I’ll wake up our little one, then prepare us three a hearty breakfast.”

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Author’s note: today’s songs are “VCR” by The xx, “Bodys” by Car Seat Headrest (also this fantastic live version), and “Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2” by Chopin.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of two hundred and one videos. Check them out.

Would you prefer to listen to this delightful chapter in audio form? Check it out.

This chapter kicks off the second-to-last sequence, titled “The Great Pretender.”

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The three of us are queueing on the terracotta tiles of the station, behind a bunch of parents and their pre-teens, when the rollercoaster car glides in. The side frames of its seats resemble stylized waves, painted ocean blue except for golden-yellow flourishes.

One by one, the passengers rise from their seats and disembark. As they step off the station in a cacophony of footsteps, laughter, and animated chatter, Nairu’s gaze follows the children that pass by: their hair windblown, their faces flushed, their eyes wide with the thrill of the ride.

“Each bench only fits two people,” Jacqueline points out.

“Go ahead and sit with Nairu,” I say. “I’ll be right behind.”

The queue shuffles forward, filling up the seats. Jacqueline guides our girl onto the second-to-last bench, and once seated, Nairu slides her butt to the far end. I take off my backpack and settle in the middle of the wooden bench behind them. This car lacks harnesses, seat belts, and even safety bars to grip; when humans built the rollercoaster a hundred years ago, they must have been that eager to die.

Nairu giggles as she sways her head with giddiness. Further down the car, a kid is slapping excitedly on the back of the bench in front of him.

While I stow the backpack between my calves, the car lurches into motion. I’m distracted by the yellow-and-green tent of the carousel below until our car tilts for its inaugural plunge. In a rush of wind and a clattering rumble that makes me vibrate, we barrel down a shadowed, narrow space squeezed between a rock wall and the back of the buildings that house carnival games. Jacqueline has wrapped an arm around Nairu, who lets out a thrilled squeal. The momentum is tossing their tresses in chaotic waves.

We crest the hill only to surge down again, rocketing toward the next incline. A spontaneous grin of euphoria has spread across my face. I feel buoyant, as if the burdens I have carried around all my life had been mercifully lessened.

Before I know it, the ride will end. Some day I will try to remember how it felt to be lifted off the seat of this car as it thundered down a slope, but these sensory impressions will have been distilled into a summary: that today I went on a rollercoaster with my loved ones, and that I wished for time to slow down so this joy would last forever.

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Author’s note: today’s song is “Unless It’s Kicks” by Okkervil River.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-seven videos. Check them out.

Are you too busy to read even such a short chapter? Listen to it instead.

This short chapter, shortest in the novel, concludes the sequence “A Stoic Face in the Darkness.” I originally intended this trip to an amusement park to serve as an epilogue to the previous sequence, but visiting the location ended up providing plenty of notes.

The next chapter will kick off the second-to-last sequence, titled “The Great Pretender.”

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Still wobbly, my insides buzzing and fizzling from the time jump, I drag myself up the stairs of the tower. In front, Jacqueline ascends with graceful steps, propelled by her designed muscles. Her raven-black hair cascades to the middle of her back in a curtain of silky locks. Even Nairu, her chestnut hair bobbing with each bounce, is bounding ahead of me.

Whatever entity charges to access the tower also turned its insides into a heritage museum. We pass by a fireplace poker, a cooking pot, an old-fashioned lantern. Nestled in a recess of the stone wall stands a contraption crafted from metal and wood. A sturdy base flares out into an ergonomic seat worn smooth. The chair is attached to a mechanism involving a wheel, a crank handle, and unidentifiable fittings, tailored for some task that became obsolete a century ago. The grain of the wood, rich and dark, speaks of decades of service, and the luster of the metal components suggests the touch of many workers’ hands, or the same one, repeated over time.

Hung on the rough walls of the stairwell, black-and-white pictures show street scenes, along with architecture from the late 19th or early 20th century. One photo captured a group of people seated in an open-top vintage automobile. I’m about to glance away from the pictures when I spot the word “Irún” in a caption. My hometown, before it degenerated into a post-apocalyptic Babel.

I stop in front of the photograph even though Jacqueline and Nairu continue ahead. A gash of sunlight, streaming in through an opposite window, is shining on the framed picture, so I shift my head around to study the details. It depicts in monochrome a streetscape featuring benches, a tree that provides shade, and tramlines laid on the road. The building façades, unfamiliar and distant, stand behind the frozen silhouettes of strangers from an unreachable past. How many ancestors of Irún’s modern inhabitants walked these streets before the buildings were demolished and replaced?

My breath hitches in my throat. What’s this upsurge of feeling? Do I miss the city of my childhood, although I yearned to flee from it and from everyone I knew? It shouldn’t matter any longer; living with Jacqueline, I can almost believe that my past belongs to someone else.

While I force myself to stagger up the staircase, I pass by more pictures that pull my attention as if imbued with their own gravity. In a sepia-toned photograph, women with woolen bathing costumes stand in beach waters as they smile at the camera. One woman’s face, beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, is swallowed by shadow. Another photo has gathered about twenty working-class people around a kid on a bicycle. In the next shot, the members of a motorcycle club pose in caps and duster coats, their vehicles polished and gleaming. In yet another frame, a row of men are standing on Ondarreta beach, wearing tank tops and shorts, maybe after a track-and-field competition.

Those people, their lives and stories, have slipped away. As if they had kept observing the world that moved on to decay and ruin, I feel them accusing me: “Why did you allow this to happen?”

What could I have done to stop it? I was surrounded by humans whose motivations and intentions seemed incomprehensible. Each time I thought others shared my perspective, their words reminded me that I was alone, a mass of flesh and bone that couldn’t budge this planet one centimeter.

I clutch the iron handrail. My eyes have moistened, my throat clenched, my facial muscles twisted into a grimace.

“Oh, the photos caught your attention, did they?” Jacqueline says, her voice echoing in the stairwell.

Instinctively, I turn toward the pictures beside me to hide the onset of tears.

“It’s just that… the further I climb, the more my thighs burn. But I’d catch up eventually.”

“Seems like these stairs are telling us to spice up our days with a bit more physical fervor.”

A heavy sigh escapes me.

“The moment I uttered those words, I feared I’d hear such a thing. You, with your chameleon body, can become as athletic as needed, and our Paleolithic daughter remains mostly unpoisoned by the additives and toxins of modern civilization, but me? I’m an arthritic, hunchbacked relic weighed down by a lifetime of regret.”

Jacqueline giggles.

“Fresh air awaits you a couple of landings away, my dear. And I promise that the view is worth every step. You can see all the way to France.”

Once we reach the final landing and climb a confined, spiral staircase, an archaic doorway transitions us onto the tower’s crenellated battlements. Sunlight splashes across me, bathing my skin with its warmth. I close my eyes, tilt my face skyward, and inhale a lungful of the fresh, crisp air. I expected it to carry a hint of brine, but it smells clean; I guess we’re too high up.

When I open my eyes, my vision is filled from end to end by a watercolor of pale blue brushed with wisps of cirrus clouds. Somewhere out there beyond the blue, across light-years of cosmic space, a conquering alien species must be planting eggs in the carcasses of their mutilated enemies. Here on Mount Igueldo, though, the autumnal breeze has revived me, clearing the fuzz from my brain.

Foosteps tap-tap-tap in a hurried rhythm; Nairu scampers up to the robust parapet punctuated with sandstone teeth. As she grips the stone for balance, she cranes her neck to peer through an embrasure. She emits a sound that starts as an “oooh” infused with the wonder of a child, but when she contemplates the steep drop that leads to a splattering death far below, the tail end of her vocalization quivers. Once Jacqueline and I join her at the parapet, Nairu reaches for my hand to clutch it tight.

The Cantabrian Sea, rippled in a sluggish motion by the winds, resembles a slab of turquoise marred by dense, underwater patches of green like submerged clouds. A yacht stands still amid the rolling swells, anchored deep below. Near the whale-shaped island at the bay’s mouth, garlands of foam stretch into the sea. The distance reduces a flock of seagulls to a swarm of white flies. To the east, beyond the verdant hump of Mount Urgull, a hilly landmass shrouded in haze melds with the horizon.

The cool breeze licks at my face, lifting strands of my hair. High-pitched squeals of joy rise from the amusement park, accompanied by the mechanical noise of the rollercoaster.

Jacqueline proffers the remaining three churros. After time-traveling to the dawn of civilization and back, I deserve a sugar hit. I pull one of the churros out of the paper cone and slide its lukewarm length into my mouth, coating my lips and tongue with a dusting of cinnamon sugar.

Yapping in a North American accent announces the arrival of a family of tourists, that whoa their way to our side. They seem the kind who would ask a stranger to take photos of them. The three of us shift away to a corner turret that overlooks the crescent-shaped bay, an amphitheater of water. Where the sun hits the foaming breakers, white sparkles ride the crests of the waves, coalescing into a silver shimmer. For a moment I wish to do nothing but munch on my churro and stare at those flashing lights.

Past the lace edge of waves against golden sand, the beachfront promenade teems with people milling about like mobile sundials: solid upper halves, angled shadows as lower halves. From the beachfront, the sprawl of Donostia, a clustering of buildings, spreads in a gridlike pattern, nestled within the green backdrop of hills.

Beside me, Nairu’s chestnut hair glimmers in the morning sun like a halo. She’s gazing upon the city with the silent, contemplative demeanor of an artist, or of a Paleolithic child who can hardly believe that any of it exists.

A cold, hissing gust buffets my face, flaps my corduroy jacket, whips the tail of my scarf about my shoulder. Nairu, her hair fluttering wildly, clutches the sketchbook to her chest as if guarding a precious heirloom. I huddle in my jacket and tuck my chin under the scarf. Its warm fleece tickles my nose.

Jacqueline wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me closer to her statuesque form.

“I brought you to a reasonably magical place, didn’t I?”

As the wind whistles around us, her tresses undulate like the waves of a glossy, black sea, exposing her earlobe and ivory-white neck. I could sink into the crystalline blue of those irises. Her full lips, always tempting, curve upward as if my mere presence pleases her.

“We should buy a castle,” I say.

“We should, though that quiet apartment of ours was quite the investment.”

“If you ever buy a castle, I’ll lounge on a throne atop the tower, too high up for any trouble to reach me.”

“I know what you mean, my darling. From such a lofty vantage, overseeing everything, it’s like we’re protecting the city, right?”

“We’d need a moat to keep away intruders, and a portcullis. Maybe a few portcullises. Oh, and don’t forget the drawbridge. Wouldn’t want to be unprepared in case of a siege.”

Jacqueline gazes at the mountainous horizon. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.

“I don’t want to give any of this up.”

My stomach knots with a sudden surge of fear.

“Wh-why would you need to?”

“Because the world expects me to resume my role as a secretary. But I refuse.”

“Oh?”

“I stayed put at the office, despite better options, out of a sense of obligation to our boss. After this break to nurture our home and Nairu, I’ve realized that my heart never lingered on the hours I spent working, and if I returned to my desk, I would wish to be elsewhere. So that’s it: I quit. I’ll ring him up when I muster the patience for that conversation.”

“Bold move, one I suspect you’ve been considering for a while. I always thought that working as a secretary was beneath you, even back when I was sure you wouldn’t… want me. From now on we’ll have to manage without your income, but I’ll do my best to provide for us three with the meager wages of a website programmer.”

Jacqueline laughs as if my statement tickled her. I feel like a child hearing the ringing of an ice-cream truck on a summer day. When the outburst dies down, her grin lingers warmly, showing off her pearly teeth and making the corners of her cobalt-blues crease.

“Ah, you’re sweet, but I didn’t expect you to shoulder the responsibilities alone. I’m returning to camming, where I truly shine. Now you understand what it means, right? As many sources of revenue as gorgeous ladies I can transform into, thanks to horny internet people.”

“That’s… an overwhelming number of sources, then.”

“Indeed, mon petit oiseau. That will more than cover the bills while still spoiling our little one with churros and amusement park trips. And don’t you worry, I gave the goverment my pound of flesh, not that I appreciate how they spend it. We won’t get in trouble.”

Jacqueline’s fingers press into my side through the corduroy jacket. With her eyelids drooping halfway, her gaze fixed on mine, she breaks into a smirk that sends my blood rushing downward.

“You know,” she continues, dropping her voice to a lower, huskier tone, “a partner could spice up my repertoire. Such a woman might prefer to preserve her anonymity, but a masquerade mask would do the job, wouldn’t it?”

Although her suggestion caresses my spine with electric fingers, I’m already flashing a dismissive wave.

“Oh, there’s no way that anybody wants to see my pussy.”

Jacqueline leans in close, her warm breath teasing the shell of my ear as her moist lips brush against it.

“They would kill for a taste, they just don’t know it yet. Besides, camming would be my side gig after the most important role of all: raising our child, as well as whoever follows. What a lucky woman I am to care for a girl who loves to create, who recognizes the beauty of the world. She won’t endure the fate of children whose curiosity and wonder are crushed in their youth, leaving them broken, forever distrustful of human beings. We’ll make sure that as Nairu ages, her childhood memories will become a beloved song, one she’ll long to return to and sing again.”

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Author’s note: today’s songs are “The Last Living Rose” by PJ Harvey, “Ask Me No Questions” by Bridget St. John, and “Such Great Heights” by Iron & Wine.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-six videos. Check them out.

Do you want to listen to this chapter instead of spending your eyesight? Check out the audiochapter.

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A South American man with toffee-colored skin, whose hair is shaved on the sides in zigzag lines that resemble the heartbeat on a monitor, is tending to the fryer, a contraption of polished steel. Using a pair of tongs, he plucks churros out of the bubbling oil and drops them into a paper cone, then he seizes a shaker of cinnamon sugar and sprinkles a dusting over the piping-hot, golden-brown pastries. The fry cook flashes a broad, white-toothed smile as he offers Jacqueline the bouquet of churros, but she’s busy rummaging through her purse for bills.

“Ma chérie, please grab it for me, will you?”

I stand on my tiptoes to receive the oil-stained cone, whose heat begins to seep into my palm and fingers. As I step back from the counter, the plume of steam that rises from the churros fills my nostrils with the aroma of fried, cinnamon-coated dough.

Jacqueline slips folded-up currency into the main snackman’s hand. Her fingers must have grazed his palm, because I sense him vibrate on an atomic level. Jacqueline, in turn, remains unfazed, as if accustomed to brushing up against filth.

The snack booth lord slides coins across the counter.

“Your change, miss. Thank you for gracing my stand with your beauty.”

My eyelids twitch. I’m tempted to slap the snackman in his stubbled face, but a criminal like that might pummel me back, so I focus on the cone of churros that burns in my grasp. I grab one of the cinnamon-dusted wands and bite off its end. As I chew on the crunchy crust, the soft interior melts on my tongue in a gush of sugary sweetness. Other than sex, such treats are the closest I will get to nirvana on this mortal plane.

From behind, an arm snakes around my waist and steers me toward the corner of the snack booth where Nairu, our Paleolithic child, is kneeling on the pavement in front of the bear-shaped garbage bin. The tip of her tongue protrudes from between her lips as she sketches in her sketchbook. When she notices us, she scrambles to her feet, flashes a triumphant grin, and holds out her drawing for us to behold.

Nairu’s fingers have smudged the black crayon across the page in rugged and earnest strokes, leaving rough-hewn edges and hasty shading, as if she had grappled with the concept of a bear-bin, trying to pin it down before it vanished forever. But unlike the resigned garbage bear, the eyes of her creation reflect wonder at the amusement park around it, and its mouth gapes in a frozen, silent laugh.

“Oh, that’s the loveliest garbage bin I’ve ever seen,” Jacqueline says.

“You have a keen eye, miss Paleolithic,” I say. “Each time you look at the drawing, the bear comes alive.”

Jacqueline’s fingers, tipped with almond-shaped nails, pinch the end of a churro. As she draws it out of the paper cone that I’m clutching, a miniature cascade of cinnamon sugar showers down.

“Here’s to our girl who sees art in every corner.”

Nairu’s eyes widen and her lips part at the sight of the approaching fried pastry. She exchanges the black crayon for the churro, then sinks her tiny teeth into the crust. As she chews, the pearly band of a smile spreads across her rosy cheeks. Given how we’re habituating her to pastries, in the future we may have trouble preventing her from rolling downhill.

We walk away from the snack booth, though my instinct urges me to hurry away like from a crime scene. The tattooed, ex-con concessionaire must be salivating at the masterpiece of Jacqueline’s derrière, because his voice follows us.

“Do come again.”

I throw a glance over my shoulder, ready to scowl at the snack-vending con-man. I’m searching for a sharper retort than “Not any time soon” when I realize that the stallman has ducked behind the counter, out of sight, as if struck by the weight of his sins.

We pass in front of a booth where two girls are leaning over to chase bobbing rubber ducks with hooked rods. On the interior walls, glossy plastic trinkets and plushies clamor for attention, forming a dense collage.

Jacqueline’s shoulder nudges mine.

“Our friend back there was quite taken with me,” she says in a teasing lilt. “The perils of making oneself devastatingly attractive.”

I want to scoff at the notion that such a lowlife, who probably served time for assault and robbery, could have become a friend of ours, but instead I gulp down the last of my churro, then suck the sugar clinging to my fingers.

“I can’t help feeling fear whenever someone flirts with my polymorphous girlfriend.”

Jacqueline lifts a hand to stroke the underside of my chin.

“If you could read my mind, love, you wouldn’t be insecure about it.”

Flushed with emotion, I fiddle with a button of my corduroy jacket.

“I don’t know if I would enjoy the attention from random, shady men.”

“It makes life much easier, that I can assure you.”

Clusters of fairgoers navigate the midway between carnival games and children’s rides: couples shepherding pre-teens, exchange students carrying backpacks and smartphones. The November sunshine glints off the screen at the end of a selfie stick. To the throng belongs the chatter, the click of shoes, the childish shouts and giggles of those who have grown accustomed to, and even thrive within, our shambling zombie of a civilization. In front of a bar, around a row of barrels used as standing tables, the patrons are brushing elbows, unaware of the looming apocalypse about to swallow their world. Who would listen if I were to explain, or scream, that the stars will fizzle out, that space-time will collapse on itself, that everything they know and love will be erased unless I stop it?

Some of the human beings present in this amusement park, let alone those I’ve come across since I was born, could be bosses who stress and overwork their employees; kids who torment other children out of boredom, or to exert dominance; parents who created life only to neglect it or even abuse it; modern marauders who stalk the streets to rob, rape, and kill; those who betray and destroy their own kind for power and profit. This world is filled with monsters, yet I must save them all.

How did Alberto, my former co-worker turned colossal blob of black sludge studded with eyeballs, put our problem? That I would come across the reality-altering machine, and I would recognize it. Those were his actual words, right? Damn it, why didn’t I write them down?! Surely I realized that to prevent the end of the universe, every word of the warning from that swamp-born bastard mattered. He did say, I’m almost certain, that I would recognize the machine as capable of tearing apart reality, so that excludes cars, computers, coffee machines, and whatnot. Ever since Alberto nauseated me with his presence, I’ve gone out of my way to suspect any device that may harbor gears or microchips, but the universe remains unsaved.

Let’s recap what I know: the professor, whom I’ve dubbed Dr. Weasel for all this rabbit-brained fuckery, must have constructed a labyrinthine construct where organic life is enmeshed with gears and cogs. Branching pipes terminate in leaves or in flasks bubbling with effervescent chemicals, while at the core of the contraption-organism rumbles a spider-legged mechanism wrought from neon-colored gems and spinning axles.

My chest constricts, a band of anxiety tightening around my ribs. I loosen my jaw, and find myself reaching for the comfort of a churro, but I grasp air. Did I drop the paper cone? Wait, where are mommy and my antediluvian daughter?

I’m standing close to a postcard rack that belongs to the souvenir stand. Up ahead, between the hotel and the stairs that lead to the rollercoaster, I spot Jacqueline’s figure, wearing a camel-colored suede blazer along with dark denim jeans that accentuate her curves. She’s nibbling on a churro while her other hand holds the remaining bunch. Beside her, Nairu, the sketchbook tucked under one arm, is mouthing words as she points up toward the tower.

When I take a step forward, a current crackles up my limbs, igniting every nerve. The cacophony of the amusement park stops, making my ears ring with sudden quiet. The brightness of a clear morning has switched to night as if cosmic spider legs had plucked the sun out of the sky.

I’m standing at the back of a sunken, circular enclosure about twenty meters in diameter, whose walls are made out of stacked, rough slabs of stone. In the center, between a pair of towering, T-shaped pillars, an old man’s white hair and beard catch the sway of torchlight. He’s addressing the group before him as he gestures toward the night sky, a canvas sprawled with a myriad stars, in which the full moon casts a silvery glow. The men are garbed in animal hides and furs, and as necklaces, they’re wearing threaded beads and fangs.

Closer to me, sitting cross-legged by a crackling campfire, a wiry young man is scraping a hide with a flint knife. Kneeling on the other side of the fire, among strewn bones, a man wrestles with the heat and bulk of a huge bull’s innards. He’s scooping out glistening clumps of viscera and dropping them onto a steaming pile. The butcher groans, pushes himself upright, and takes a gulp from a swollen waterskin while thick blood and fat dribble down his arms. Above, perched upon the earthen rim of the enclosure, a male silhouette outlined in silver, etched against the splash of stars, leans on his spear, surveying the horizon.

The cold air carries the thick smells of burning logs, animal hides, sweat, damp earth, fresh rain on stone, nearby flora, and blood.

Rising five meters high at the center of the enclosure, the pair of T-shaped pillars are painted malachite green, their surfaces carved in relief with humanlike features: from the upper portion of the broad sides, deep-red arms reach down to rest their hands on the narrow side, above a belt adorned with black and white patterns that cinch the stone’s girth. Flickering torchlight pools shadows in the grooves of the reliefs, making the humanlike features pulse in a chiaroscuro effect.

The silhouettes of smaller pillars stand as sentinels around the perimeter of the enclosure, and on those bathed in torchlight, a menagerie of animals emerges: jet-black bulls, rust-red foxes, burnt-orange felines, alongside snakes, gazelles, vultures, scorpions.

I notice a statue to my right, tall as a basketball center, close as if it had sneaked up to me in the darkness. The eyes of that bearded face stare blindly from their sunken sockets. In its emaciated torso, the artist has sculpted each rib of the protruding ribcage. The statue’s hands are clutching its erect penis.

My insides explode with a surge of adrenaline and dread.

“Fuck no,” I blurt out.

The old man falls silent, and breath steams from his agape mouth. The group before him scrambles about, colliding with one another. Their torches send across the enclosure waves of light that elongate and warp human shadows into grotesque shapes. Pairs of eyes reflect the flames before fading into the darkness as their owners turn their heads in shared bewilderment. The silhouetted guard on the earthen rim brandishes his spear, whose point glints in the moonlight. The wiry man, frozen mid-scrape, stares up at me with wide-eyed awe. The butcher, his face a grimy mask of ash, tries to back away but slips on coils of intestine, crashing onto the carcass of the bull in a spray of gore.

“I ain’t doing this shit again,” I say. “Later, you guys. Good luck with civilization.”

I step back, and static electricity zaps through my body. The amusement park engulfs me in a burst of colors and noise.

I squeeze my eyes shut to shield them from the morning sunlight. My face has gone cold, my arms tingle with pent-up energy.

“There you are, mon amour,” Jacqueline says, her voice tinged with relief. “We lost you for a moment.”

When I open my eyes, I see Nairu with her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk’s. Sugar-glaze clings to the corners of her mouth. I struggle to speak; my throat is tight and my face stiff. While Nairu chews the churro into a manageable bolus, she arches an eyebrow at my stunned expression.

“You look like a fish,” she says through the mush. “Were you swimming in your head?”

Jacqueline’s fingers trace the contour of my cheek, bringing a warmth that seeps beneath my skin.

“Leire, what’s the matter?”

Her motherly tone calms the pounding in my chest, but I avoid facing her concern. As I blink away the glare of sunlight, behind the row of carnival games, the rattling rollercoaster crests a ridge. During its zooming descent, the children shriek with joy, some passengers’ hair streams in the wind. If I were to look into Jacqueline’s cobalt-blues, I may confess that the universe and the human race are fucked unless I locate a reality-collapsing machine and tear it out by the roots.

“Ah, you know,” I utter in a strained voice, “just an intrusive daydream regarding one of my many traumas.”

“Ma pauvre chérie…”

I shake my head.

“No, no pity today. We have the right to enjoy a carnival of treats on a sunny November morning without the looming threat of an apocalypse.”

“Right you are. Our girl has expressed an interest in the tower, so how about we check out the most enchanting view of Donostia?”

I follow her pointing finger. Perched atop Mount Igueldo against an expanse of azure, the tower stretches upward, its sand-colored stones and arched windows washed in the sunlight, its crowning battlements and crenellations speaking of the days of yore.

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Author’s note: today’s songs are “Sycamore” by Bill Callahan, and “Nantes” by Beirut.

I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel. A total of a hundred and ninety-three songs so far. Check them out.

How about you listen to this chapter instead of reading it? Check out the audiochapter.

I went out of my way to write an essay regarding Leire’s trip to the past. Read it, will you?