6.

6.

As far as hosts go, upgrading from Bill to Trent is the equivalent of going from a broken-down double-wide on the edge of a radioactive pit to a nice McMansion in a quiet subdivision. Trent’s lungs are blissfully clear of ash and phlegm, his heart ticks along like a Swiss watch, and his muscles are lean and hard. Now we feel a little bad about living so long in Bill when newer models were available. But beggars can’t be choosers, and when we swam out of that tanker into our new life in America, we were the textbook definition of vulnerable.

 Trent has no idea we entered him. We waited until his eyes flicked left, toward the onrushing ambulance, before firing the tendril into his open mouth. He coughed, swallowed, and pounded his chest—massive booms through the cavern of his sternum as we affixed to his esophagus, then sent a sub-tendril winding through his tissues (So pink! So lovely!) toward his spine. Plugging into a convenient nerve, we could share his vision—so crisp and clear, compared to Bill’s dull eyesight.  

Trent stands, leaping from foot to foot as he directs the bored EMTs to focus on Bill instead of the twice-splattered Frank. Bill waves to Trent as he’s loaded into the ambulance, which roars off, siren wailing. We bid a silent goodbye to the parts of us still inside our old home, which a few courses of antibiotics, plus a blast of radiation from an MRI, will surely dissolve to nothingness.

A police cruiser arrives next, vomiting out two officers: one thick and squat, his partner thin and tall. Their nametags say ‘BARNES, D.’ and ‘GRIMES, T.’ We decide to name them Tweedledum and Tweedledee, for obvious reasons. Tweedledee issues a low whistle at the sight of Frank’s mangled remains, but neither seem too concerned about one of their colleagues converted into a hundred-fifty pounds of ground beef with glass chunks mixed in.

“That who I think it is?” Tweedledum asks, cocking his head for a better view.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Tweedledee says.

“Oh man.” Tweedledum chuckles. “I told Frank once, he’d crash and burn if he kept up with his bullshit, but I meant that as a metaphor, I swear.”

Tweedledee turns to Trent. “What happened here?”

“Listen, believe me, okay, it was self-defense,” Trent babbles. “I mean, he came at my uncle with a gun, and then a car hit him?”

“A car hit him.” Tweedledee smirks at Tweedledum. “Just like that. Came out of nowhere, by itself, and smacked into poor Frank.”

“That’s some futuristic stuff,” Tweedledum says. “Like, Elon Musk shit.”

“I was driving the car, okay?” Trent clutches his hair. “I was driving it, but I didn’t, like, want to kill this guy or anything, I’m not a killer, I just wanted to stop him from hurting my uncle, okay? I just wanted to stop him, because . . . ”

Tweedledee wanders away, triggering the radio clipped to his chest, rattling off coordinates and codes. Trent paces faster and faster, nails digging into his skull, tears carving trails down his dusty cheeks.

“Hold up,” Tweedledum raises and lowers his hands, palms down, as if that will somehow cool Trent’s epic meltdown. “It’s not your fault, okay? Frank was a very bad man. Had some superstar busts in his time, believe me, but he was more trouble than he was worth. Stop pacing for just one damn moment and listen to me, okay?”

Trent pauses.

“Good.” Tweedledum smiles. “You’re going to walk on this. Self-defense, dirty cop, what you did was totally righteous. But there’s a catch, okay? You’re going to leave right now, and you’re going to keep silent about what happened here for the rest of your life. No press, no talk shows, nothing, got that?”

Trent tries to speak but nothing comes out.

Tweedledum’s smile fades. “Because if you do speak—about any of this—it could get very bad for you, all right? Like, you might disappear one night. Nobody would hear from you again. You get me?”

Trent nods so vigorously we feel a neck-bone pop.

“Good.” Tweedledum turns to regard the spectacular wreck of the purple Cadillac. Fluid drools from its cracked engine, and the frame is a crumpled mess, but the impact failed to pop the trunk with its inconvenient corpse. Just wait until the cops find that juicy treat.

“Get a move on,” Tweedledum says, “before too many people show up.”

“I . . . ” Trent points at the wrecked cars. “Can, uh, I get a ride?”

Snorting Tweedledum points somewhere over Trent’s shoulder. “There’s a bus stop back that way. Saw it on the way in. I don’t think you’re getting your car back anytime soon.”

“Yeah, those stains are never coming out,” Tweedledee yells as he pokes at Frank’s left foot.

Trent backs away slowly, as if expecting Tweedledum to draw his sidearm and open fire. After the events of the past hour, who could blame him? Only when Tweedledum turns away to join his partner does Trent spin around and trot for the bus stop. At the wasteland’s distant edge, more police cruisers emerge from a cloud of dust, lights flashing.

All this time, we haven’t been idle—although we must admit, Tweedledum’s unsubtle threat makes us wonder whether our tenure in Trent might prove shorter than expected. As our new home stammered and sweated, we began weaving new connections throughout his systema nervosum, getting to know his neural pathways. We’re a long way from accessing his thoughts, but we can sense his shame and fear in his clenched stomach, tight muscles, the way his adrenaline gland squirts in response to the faintest sound. As we guessed when we examined Trent through Bill’s eyes, this is a kid who’s unsure of himself, who wants someone to show him the way, to tell him that everything will be fine. Given enough time, we can become that inner voice, guiding him toward a brighter future, but we’d much prefer outright control over his body.

We hope that Trent takes good drugs on occasion, or at least eats some very spicy meals, the cuisines that Bill tended to avoid as if a bad case of indigestion was the worst of his problems. What’s the point of changing homes if you can’t experience new things?