Way to go, Zoh!

Leaning her forehead against the cold, shiny windowpane, Zohra gazed longingly at the neighbor’s yard. Her favorite willow tree stood there, free. She sighed audibly. There was a moment—a pause—during which her grandfather stopped typing on his typewriter, and she sighed again, this time turning to him with the saddest face she could muster. Her lips quivered at the corners, her eyes downcast.

Seated at his desk, her grandfather let out a laugh. “No,” he answered the question her eyes asked.

“I deserve human rights!” Zohra declared.

“No. Humans deserve human rights, Zohra.”

“I can be human.”

“But not humane,” Elin interjected, appearing from the hallway, dramatically chewing on a celery stick, as though this conversation required additional fiber.

“Humane? Humane?! Human is humane!” Zohra gestured wildly, as though throwing philosophy at them would work.

“I will not argue with you,” her grandfather sighed.

“Why not? You insist on caging me in here!” Zohra threw an accusatory glance at Elin, who rolled her eyes.

Her grandfather simply laughed again, shook his head, and returned to his typewriter. He was writing about birds. Zohra squinted. He looked like Santa Claus.

Zohra leaned in, barely moving her lips, eyes flicking to Elin before she whispered, “I won’t tell Elin if you won’t,” her eyes gleaming. “And I know things, Opi. I see things.” The typewriter, Zohra noticed, was typing on its own. It was also muttering. “More commas,” it grumbled. “You’re nothing without me.”

Dear Diary,
Elin Karson won’t let me go outside. It was only a dive to the underworld.

*

Matteo’s scream of agony echoed through the frozen lake, a sound so piercing it startled a goose into questioning its life choices. A banshee, Zohra thought. Banshees are women, she remembered Elin explaining to her mythos. But Elin always took liberties. Matteo’s scream grew louder. He'll wake the dead!

She observed, detached, as the boys—Jeremy, Cas, and Sven—laughed, pushing Matteo deeper into the hole in the ice. Matteo, flailing like an underwhelming fish, was fighting both gravity and the questionable decisions that had led him here.

The lake was beautiful this time of year. Covered in ice, a still moment animated by soft flakes in slow descent, piling up like powdered sugar on a cosmic cake. Whatever dies now will be covered in white and reborn in Spring.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them, Matteo was still in the water, and the boys’ laughter had not left their faces.


“I’m not dreaming,” she murmured wearily. Then she wondered: What’s going to happen now? He will die. She felt guilty, but only a little. Matteo was neither friend nor enemy. When they were seven, he had called her an “unwanted child,” so she bit him. She remembered the blood in her mouth then. Now, there he was, inside the frozen lake, afraid, screaming, and freezing.


Opi was wrong. Death wasn’t silent.

The boys, oblivious to their soon-to-be murderer status, continued their entertainment.
Zohra approached them quietly, her steps light on the ice. When she reached Jeremy, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello, germ.”

Jeremy turned violently, stepping away from her touch as if she were a leper sent specifically to ruin his day. He regarded her with disdain he reserved only for her.

“What do you want, half-breed?” he sneered.


She pondered this as Sven chimed in, “Yeah, what do you want, witch?”
Zohra raised a brow. “Go fetch, Svenny. You too, Cas. I’m here to talk to Jeremy. You can come out of the water now, Teo.” Matteo, blinking in confusion, hesitated.

Jeremy huffed. “You don’t give orders.”


Zohra ignored him. “I was wondering. Who do you think they’ll fish out first?” She took a step closer, and Jeremy instinctively took one back, inching closer to the hole. “Who will they fish out first? Answer me.”


“Wh—” Jeremy started to say.


“I guess we’ll find out.”
She stepped into him in an embrace.
And then, they both plummeted into the icy water.

The cold wasn’t what surprised her. It was the immediate realization that they weren’t in the lake at all. No water, no suffocating pressure, no drowning.


Instead, they had landed in… a waiting room?

A receptionist—who happened to be a trout in a small red hat—looked up from its desk.

“Name?” it asked, voice bored.


Jeremy gasped, gaping at the trout.

“Wha—”


“Full name, please,” the trout said, picking up a clipboard with a tiny fin.
“J-Jeremy?”


The trout sighed, as if dealing with children who had clearly not read the guidelines before falling into the bureaucratic underworld.


“Do you have an appointment, or are you a walk-in?”


“A—” Jeremy made a strangled noise. “WALK-IN? WHERE ARE WE?!”


The trout’s hat wobbled slightly as it gave them both a tired look. “You’ve fallen into Lake Administration. You’ll need to file a drowning permit before proceeding.”


Zohra, unfazed, dusted off her coat. “Finally, some rules around here. Does it take long?”


“Standard processing is six to eight weeks,” the trout deadpanned. “Expedited service is available if you can provide three witness testimonies and a notarized affidavit proving that your fall was intentional.”


Jeremy made another strangled noise.


Zohra hummed. “And if I refuse?”


The trout gestured to a nearby door labeled ‘EXIT: ICE RE-ENTRY—MIND THE PENGUINS.’


“Alternatively,” the trout continued, “you can request to see the Lake God. But he’s in a meeting right now.”


Jeremy wheezed.


The trout slid a form across the desk. “Sign here to confirm that assessment.”


Zohra picked up the pen. “Oh, I like it here.”