There’s a gunshot. And another.

And another.

Damn. Someone's bound to be coming now. Nobody can stay willfully ignorant after that; not even in a neighborhood as discreet as this.

There's another one.

The smell of the dumpster I'm crouched against is really starting to get to me.

I glance at the paper bag next to my feet. Did I bring everything? I probably did. Not that she's ever been picky. She'd said it herself: 'As long as I don't walk around naked.'

Another shot.

Then, nothing.

I choose to wait.

Still nothing.

"Okay, then." I decide.

I peek behind the corner. The guy was the one to walk in, now it’s the woman agent coming out. I don’t think she’s noticed the blood on her soles, given the bloody imprint she leaves behind with each step.

“Meow.”

The woman glances at the enlarged cat nestled on top of the Ford Fiesta.

“There was a giant cat, at least.” she murmurs, before crossing the street and diving into the same observation van the Agency has been huddling itself up in for the past few weeks.

What now? I don’t have a whole lot of options, and even less time. I’m not going to hedge any bets here – Phoebe’s probably dead. How do I bring her back? How long would I need? How long until backup arrives?

I click my tongue. I should’ve lunged at the woman. Stopped her from getting to her little van. Now she’s probably got a view of the entire parameter. No way is she gonna miss an idiot like me dashing into the building.

Still – if it’s just her in there – and it probably is – she’ll have to get me herself. And she didn’t look like she was in a shape to run. Besides, why should she even rush me? As far as she knows, I’m just a tenant. We made sure to stop communicating the moment she moved in.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just walk in. Just little old random Jamie, visiting an aunt, for all anyone cares. Step one, done. Step two – I go and find Phoebe.

What about the other lackey, though? The guy? Is he guarding the apartment? I’ve got a knife, but he’s a trained pro, isn’t he? Unlike the woman, he didn’t look that banged up.

I shake my head. “Whatever.” All I need is the element of surprise. That’s always been enough.

What were those gunshots about, though? If they shot Phoebe’s body up any more – don’t give yourself that image, Jamie, you’re shivering for crying out loud – can I even bring her back?

“No! Stop it!” I curse myself. Phoebe needs me. I can’t just leave her to those vultures in the Agency. I’ll figure it out. And if I don’t, I’ll burn the body. I’ll burn the entire building, if I have to.

It’s the least I can do.

Counting my blessings, I pull the hoodie over my head and walk to the apartment building. No looking over my shoulder. My pace is brisk, but that’s fine, it’s cold outside anyhow. Just keep looking at the door. No suspicious behavior. Phoebe would tell me that trying not to make yourself look suspicious is what makes you the most suspicious, but I like to believe I’m pretty good at this. I’m invisible. A nobody.

I’m a nobody.

Nobody.

There’s nobody guarding the apartment. And the door’s been left ajar.

The guy agent’s body is sprawled across the the bathroom doorway. Looking at the holes littering his chest, I’d say I know where all those gunshots came from. Just what happened here, exactly?

“Doesn’t matter.” I murmur, and when I’m right, I’m right.

Phoebe’s in the tub. Ostensibly less Swiss than cheese, at least compared to the guy in the door.

I can work with this.

I put my index fingers into my mouth and pull down, extending my mouth opening until my jaw reaches my chest. Next, I expand it, pulling my cheeks apart until I decide there’s enough room.

I put my hands on Phoebe’s shoulders.

It takes about fifteen minutes, but I manage to swallow her whole.

My stomach hurts.

“...Are you there?” I ask.

“Ah, Jamie! Well, then. I guess they got me, in the end.” the voice in my head – Phoebe’s voice – says.

“What… happened?”

“Nothing much. They stormed in. I threw a cat at them. Then the cat ran away. Then I figured I was done for and decided to take one of them down with me. At least, I’m hoping I did. Did I?”

“There’s a dead man here, so—“

“Great. Let’s go.”

I stumble out of the apartment, the pain in my stomach unbearable. “I think the lady agent shot him. What did you do?”

“The thing about the Agency is that they’re so slow. It’s really their biggest flaw. First their little van, then thinking I wouldn’t see them sneaking into the building, then waiting at the stairwell, counting down to the right minute to go and rush my apartment. They shouldn’t have waited. That’s what screwed them the most.”

“How do you mean?”

“Gave me enough time to copy the male agent’s consciousness and hold onto it. Just before I got shot, I overwrote the woman’s with the copy.”

“And… you figured they’d try to kill each other because of that?”

“Sure. Nobody likes facing themselves.”

I make it back to the alley.

“Here good?” I ask.

“Wherever is fine.”

“It’s kinda cold.”

“Is what it is.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’m not gonna have a bullet hole when I come out.”

The gagging is the worst part. Time and time again I’ve told her to try and not wiggle and time and time again she fails.

The first thing to push itself out of my mouth is left arm. Then her head. Then the second arm. The torso nearly chokes me, but we’ve done this enough times for her to be quick about it. Her feet always taste like lavender somehow.

“Clothes?” she asks, prostrated on the ground, naked. My stomach always disintegrates them, the clothes. I’ve tried taking some pills to make the disintegration less severe, but your local pharmacy’s hardly going to have something for a magical healing stomach.

I point to the paper bag behind the dumpster.

She yawns, crawling to it. “Thank you, Jamie.”

I gasp, having just noticed it: “Phoebe! Your… hair.”

“Mm?” her hand dives into the bag.

“It’s… It’s white...”

“Oh? Interesting. Must be a sign.” she remarks, slipping into an old pair of jeans.

“Of what?”

She ponders the Arcade Fire shirt for a moment, but refrains from commenting on it. “A sign – that it’s getting old. The dying. This is – what? – the sixth time? I can’t expect your womb to always be here.”

“It’s my stomach. Not a womb.”

“Same functionality, same difference.” She stretches. “I need to figure out how to stop bullets one of these days.”

“I mean—“

“Of course, it could also be a sign that your womb is starting to do a bit more than just heal me. Which leads to the same point. I need to stop dying.”

Phoebe turns on her heel, going further into the alley.

“You won’t deal with the other agent?” I ask her.

“Jamie,” she stops, “I don’t deal in death. I deal in punishment. Sometimes the latter calls for the former. But the person in that van’s already been punished. I’ve given my message. It’ll be delivered the moment they realize my body’s gone. My work here is done.”

“What’s the message?” I ask.

She looks to me. “C’mon, now.”

She looks to her feet.

She smiles.

She looks up, to the star-lit sky.

She spreads her arms.

“God is here. And you can’t have her.”