Where the Lost Things Are Read Free Page A

hear Chandler.
    â€œThe KFC job was a mistake. All that slimy, pimply skin. The nodules of fat. Sure I’d been depressed about the alsoverse, but now I was suicidal. Back in my pathetic rented room, I let the bad feelings take over and I started to—attenuate. Evanesce. Dwindle. I slipped through a crack, and into the alsoverse.” He paused, looking around. “Yes, I found another world—but I’m stuck inside it. And it’s a dump. Come see.”
    He led us across the field to where it ended on a low bluff.
    â€œSo much stuff!” said Amara. “Like my cousin Jessie’s yard.”
    Indeed. We were overlooking a wide barren plain studded with pyramids of junk that rose even higher than our bluff. The sky was all in shades of cream and peach.
    â€œThere’s a pile of giant keys,” said Darly, pointing at the closest of the mounds.
    â€œAnd funny shaped surfboards,” said Amara, pointing to another nearby heap.
    â€œThose are guitar picks,” said Jack. “Don’t forget, we’re tiny.”
    â€œI’m bigger than a guitar pick back home,” protested Darly. “Why should I be smaller than one here?”
    â€œWe look smaller because we’re further away,” said Amara comfortably.
    â€œFarther from what ?” I asked.
    â€œYou’d understand if Chandler and I could teach you the rudiments of space-time-scale continuum mechanics,” said Jack.
    â€œBut such an attempt would be quite quixotic,” said Chandler. He and Jack exchanged a snobby, knowing look—bullshit artists that they were.
    â€œYou see, Bert?” said Amara. “I’m right.”
    I stared out across the plain. Each of the vast plain’s ziggurats of pelf held a different category of lost items. A gargantuan haystack of long legs and platter-sized lenses—glasses. A cathedral of gold hula hoops—wedding rings. A ticking stack of menacing machines—watches. A mountain of single socks. Other less easily categorizable mounds stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see. But there, only a quarter of a mile off, was—
    â€œA pile of pills,” said Jack, pointing “We’re here for my bluegene meds,
    â€œWho are those people?” said Darly. “Look at them down there.” Milling mournfully among the mounds were men and women in regular clothes, busy as ants.
    â€œStackers and sorters,” said Chandler. “Missing persons, like me. People who let themselves disappear. We never talk. We spend our time arranging this crap. As if it might come in handy some day.”
    â€œYou do this for occupational therapy?” asked Jack.
    â€œIt fills the time,” said Chandler with a shrug. “We’re stuck here for good. We might even be immortal. If the crows don’t eat us.”
    â€œYou mean those big birds flying around?” said Amara. Her google glasses were glittering away. Documenting the scene.
    â€œI think they’re pretty,” said Darly, who found many things pretty. “What do they want?”
    â€œHard to say,” said Chandler. “Sometimes one of them snatches up something shiny and carries it off. To where, I don’t know. The other crows always chase the one that’s flying away. Like they want to follow.”
    â€œThe crows are in charge?” asked Jack.
    â€œMaybe,” said Chandler. “Sometimes a crow will swoop down and snack on a slacking stacker or on a loitering sorter. That’s why it’s risky to be idle.”
    Amara mimed a shiver.
    â€œYou’re slacking on your own right now,” Jack pointed out. “Smoking my Bugler.”
    â€œThe crows honor me because they like my second-hand smoke,” said Chandler. “Watch this.” He took a drag and blew the smoke straight up. One of the birds caught the scent and came spiraling down.
    I shivered when the iridescent black crow landed in the field