He is coughing again.
My sari sweeps behind me as I climb the steps, medicine bottle in hand. Two teaspoons if I remember correctly.
The door to my husband’s room is open. He is sprawled in bed, pillow over his face, as if smothering himself
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An old wives’ tale says that you can only see the froombas if you pluck a magical ‘shroom from below the frozen lake. A simple task. And I don’t say that as a gullible maiden or to tell lies out of my pantaloons.
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He smelled of cinnamon raisin bread, fresh out of the oven on a crisp autumn afternoon at Grandma’s place. And I hated it. I mean, forget about being a covert secret agent. How was I supposed to concentrate on undermining a criminal mastermind when my own agent partner—and brother—smelled like
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“How does one communicate with a sea spirit?”
High-pitched shrieks continued to reverberate throughout the vessel as I dropped the question on the engineer. My crew and I stood with plugs in our ears, but our methods to keep ourselves sane were failing.
“You’re asking me, an acoustical engineer, if I know how to talk to an invisible force
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