you can't let her stab me, k9, it's not legal!

It's a blisteringly hot 103 degrees, and Madeline's A/C is stretched to its limit. It's humid, too, a miserable combination brought on by smog and smoke from the now all too regular California fire season. The sky’s a terrible, muted bronze; the sun a weak, bright red behind the clouds. Helen had woken to ash dusting the roof, a mockery of snow.

The smell of smoke clings to everything. It chokes the air; Helen can almost feel it when she moves.

No one’s outside. Anyone alive is huddled around fans and A/C units and air purifiers. Madeline, being dead, is in the pool.

She’d stepped onto the back deck stark naked and Helen had flung a towel at her, frantic.

“What about neighbors, Mad?” she’d hissed. “Drones?”

Madeline had shrugged, uncaring. “I paid good money for this body! I’m going to show it off before I can’t anymore.”

“I don’t care about your nudity, you nymphomaniac. You’re all patchy.”

The heat and humidity have caused their paint to go runny, even under the sealant. They’ve been leaving trails everywhere. They haven’t bothered with touch-ups; no point when it will smear away within minutes.

“That’s Viola’s problem, not mine,” Madeline had said.

So here Madeline is, in the pool, wearing a white bikini—under duress. Not that it hides much, but it stops Helen from having a flash of panic every time she glances over.

“Much” might be a generous assessment—the bikini hides nothing. Madeline’s skin is pale and lifeless under the water, a fact only accentuated by the few patches of paint that remain. Helen’s reminded, absurdly, of an Appaloosa horse. Madeline surely has the hair for it.

She’s oddly striking like this, something Helen can never tell her. Her ego barely fits in the mansion as is.

“Get in the pool, Hel, you’re so far away,” Madeline whines.