“Thought so,” he says, then nods over his shoulder. “Twins are out back.”

I see Esther and Michael outside, having the kind of conversation I’m sure only twins have. Esther looks pleading, Michael resolved. Neither seems to be speaking, and yet both have been understood. Michael’s black hair would have made him the outsider in the family if Mom and I hadn’t shown up. He is nice to me, but not like we’re family, not like I am someone he will ever give a nickname or call late at night. The twins don’t remember their mother, a woman whose face and past matched theirs far better than my mother’s ever will, but I’ve looked her up. In worlds where their mother lives, my mother never meets Dan and never leaves downtown.

    Their conversation picks up again, and the wind carries Esther’s raised voice against the window. I turn away, trying to remember the last time I cared about anything enough to scream for it.

I change in my old room, now converted into Esther’s office. When she comes in, I take a container from my bag and toss it over my shoulder at her. She smiles as she catches it, running her thumb along the face cream’s silver top.

“You shouldn’t feed my vanity. It’s my worst trait,” she says, sitting on the cot that will be my bed tonight.

“That you think vanity is your worst trait is a sign of your vanity.”

I put on tights, even though they’re thick, black, and hell to wear in the desert, and Esther’s eyes fixate on my legs. This last trip has pushed the traversing bruises—unique stripes on either side of my limbs and torso—down my thighs and onto both sides of my calves. That alone wouldn’t force me to put on tights, but the garage tattoos on the back of my thighs, a massive eye on each leg, are also exposed.

My mother can never see the tattoos. I’ve had tattoos removed from my arms, chest, the base of my neck, and behind my ears. I’ve saved a little at a time to have the rest removed, but I started on the ones in plain view first. The next one I erase will be the largest: the six letters of someone else’s name scrawled across my back from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

“Mom still thinks you never got tattoos before you left Ashtown,” she says.

I concentrate on not pausing in my task. “How did that come up?”

“Michael wants a plated tooth. She’s been using you as an example, because you’re worldly, but you didn’t alter your body.”

“He wants a runner’s tooth?”

“Worse,” she says. “He wants onyx, like Nik Nik.”

“No.” I look up from my tights so she’ll know I’m serious. “You can’t let him. If runners see him with an emperor’s tooth they’ll rip it out. It’s an insult. If he has to get one, get silver. Silver’s safe.”

    She’s looking at me wide-eyed, seeing too much. It’s the same way she looked at me when she was twelve. She’s probably wondering how a Ruralite girl knows so much about downtown Ash’s runners.

“Is that what you two were fighting about?”

She waits a second, deciding whether she’s going to let me get away with moving the conversation along, then answers. “We weren’t fighting, we were discussing, and no. That was about something else.”

My sister tells me everything, so her pause means this is Michael’s secret.

“I was good at hiding things from her before I left home,” I say, sitting next to her. “That’s why Mom never knew.”

“And from me. I never saw them either until you came back.”

“You were twelve. I could have hidden an eye patch from you then.”

We talk for a little while, though mostly I listen. Eventually she looks out the window and stands. I stand, too, but I don’t have anywhere to go. This is where we separate. The sun is setting, so she will need to pray. Today, the theme will be gratitude, a litany of thanks from a girl raised in a place with nothing. She will don an apron for tonight’s festivities, something her people wear when they interact with the nonreligious, a sign of their willingness to help if asked. And I will wear my dress, a sign that I am not part of the church, just a nonbelieving donor.

But she’s taking the face cream with her, just like she does the lip balm and tooth rinses I bring. She wears products from me that change her appearance, and it almost makes up for the fact that she is too fair to ever look like me. When I see her, absent the sunspots of her peers, her teeth shining white in that ever-benevolent smile, I think, There, there I am. Because that’s what a sister is: a piece of yourself you can finally love, because it’s in someone else.

* * *

    SHOES. I’D FORGOTTEN to bring cheap shoes. I’d grabbed the only dressy pair I owned, black with the distinctive gold line running up the back indicating the brand without saying it. Dell got them for me because she knew I’d embarrass myself at company parties in whatever I owned, and by extension embarrass her, but it doesn’t matter that they were a gift. These shoes could buy a month of food for the families out here. When I walk into the new church they click loudly in a crowd of heels too worn down to match the sound. It shames me more than it shames them, but it does shame us both. I make up for it by smiling too much, because my usual aloofness will look like elitism to them.

At the dedication ceremony, senior members of the church speak about how much this new building will mean to the community. I believe it. In my journal there’s a picture of the old church. At best, it was a glorified barn. This new building has real walls, the kind that actually keep the heat out instead of just blocking sunlight. And, my stepfather’s greatest pride, it has a series of attached rooms, each large enough to give temporary shelter to a family of four. Rural wastelanders eschew formal houses, but on bright days, days when the sun is too close and the atmosphere too thin, even those adept at living rough need more than mud over their heads.

The theme of the night is gratitude, so every speaker thanks God. But the theme for the night is also survival, so they are careful to thank Nik Nik almost as often. I don’t know if they’re thanking the emperor for a donation, or if they’re thanking him for the privilege of having a building without his runners burning it down, but they aren’t really grateful, just afraid of what will happen if they don’t look it.

Nik Nik is sitting behind me. The Ruralites always save a seat in the back row for him during services, even though he rarely attends. Just as they always save a seat for the House proprietor, even though Exlee has no use for religion. They are both here tonight though: Exlee because standing there looking like the only soft thing in the desert is an excellent advertisement, and Nik Nik because he wants to remind people who bow to God that they must bow to him first. I stare at Exlee, done up in leather and black glitter, and long for the days when the proprietor knew my name.

    After the speeches, my mother serves refreshments from behind a counter while the rest of my family gives tours of the facility. When I go to her, she hands me a glass of lemonade like I’m just another donor. It’s her own recipe—hints of honey, the scent of lavender without the taste. She’s not allowed to brag, but when I say it’s the best thing she’s ever made she doesn’t correct me.

“Did you have to invite everyone?” I ask.

She manages to convey irritation without compromising the benevolence in her face. It’s all in the eyes. “He gave. Everyone who gave is entitled to come.”

She has to be respectful, because if you disrespect Nik Nik, he may want to teach you a lesson. That lesson can be a quadrupled utility bill, or a house fire set by a smiling runner.

I’ve never catered to him. But then, I’ve never been afraid to die, which has probably been my problem on more than one Earth.

“I don’t know why you hate him so much,” she says. “It’s not as if he’s ever crossed us personally.”

I open my mouth to tell her how wrong she is, but she continues, saving me from making a mistake.

“We left downtown before he even inherited.”

Hearing my mother talk about leaving the center of Ash reminds me where and who I am and which one she is. She doesn’t know how many other hers died in the concrete because of Nik Nik and his even-worse father…but you’d think she could guess.

“You’re right. I’ve never met the emperor. I just don’t like the idea of him.”

She stiffens, tapping the lemonade ladle against the bowl.