Something hard dug into Bonito’s shoulder. 

She blinked. The sky was mottled gray. A whitened sun flashed through her eyelashes, fading in and out of charcoal shadow. The light had a late-fall cast.

Bonito felt around her neck. The chain was still there.

She sat up. She’d landed half-on, half-off a parking block. The broken asphalt around it floated in uneven icebergs on waves of grass and weeds. A string of power poles, lined with dark pine trees, marched away into a tall, straggling forest. The building behind her was a beige cinderblock cliff. Maple saplings hung over the edge of the roof, swaying in the wind. The only sounds were branches scraping against the wall and her own breathing.

Bonito made sure her collar covered the chain one more time, then pulled her legs under herself and unfolded upwards. She stumbled as soon as she was on her feet, but without pausing she braced herself on the wall and followed it like a kid at a roller rink. At the front corner of the building, she stopped, resting one hand on the wall. 

She looked fifteen. Her powder blue and white striped polo shirt was three sizes too big, and her eyes were huge, black, and mostly covered by a mat of bangs. She squinted into the midday sunlight.

She was at the edge of an oceanic parking lot. There were no cars. Jackhammer marks scarred the last contiguous pieces of concrete. The angular brown and gray hulks of abandoned stores sharpened the horizon on every side. A flock of seagulls blanketed the ground in the loading dock to her left.

The only color was a blue tent, tied to a ring of cement buckets in the center of the lot. It covered a vinyl table that had been white a long time ago. “EXECUTOR” was written across the front in red Sharpie.

A man in a brown suit sat behind it. He gestured to the empty folding chair across from him.

Bonito tested her weight on each of her legs and pushed off the wall. A piece of beige paint chipped off where her hand had been. She didn’t seem to notice. She crossed the lot, moving slowly over the broken concrete but never losing speed.

Up close, the man’s suit was brand new and sharply creased. One lapel flapped in the wind. In one corner of his table, a desk lamp lit a plain tear-off calendar and a stack of paper that seemed like it was only there for show. A Magic 8 Ball paperweight was balanced on top. A single, slim white plastic folder lay in front of him.

“Please, sit down.”

The folding chair’s legs skipped over the cracks in the asphalt. Rattling echoed across the parking lot. Carefully, Bonito fit herself into the seat.

“Who —” Bonito’s voice caught. She hadn’t spoken in years. She coughed. “Who are you?”

“I’m the executor of your father’s estate.”

“Oh. Does that mean…”

“He died last year.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

After a long pause, the Executor reached across the desk to adjust the Magic 8 Ball. “We’ve met, although you don’t remember.”

“Sorry.”

“No hard feelings. You were really young.”

Bonito watched him in silence, motionless except for her bangs flapping in the wind.

“Do you remember meeting him?” the Executor asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” The Executor slid the white folder across the desk. “Anyway, this is the will.”

Text blockaded the pages. Roman numerals, numbers, and letters spiraled in on themselves, marching across the paper to pin slivers of text against the far right margin. A blizzard of notes drifted up behind them, splattered with four colors of highlighter.

“That’s the long version,” the Executor said. “The details are there, if you want them. The short version is, there’s only one thing you need to do.”

“To do what?”

“To collect your inheritance.”

“I inherited something?”

“Yes. One-quarter of the estate.”

The Executor looked for some sign that she understood, but her expression didn’t change. He decided she looked attentive enough. 

“All you have to do is go to the Realtor and show her that folder, and it’ll be yours. Her office is marked on the map in the back pocket.”

Bonito watched him with a polite, deeply interested smile. The Executor couldn’t remember if she’d blinked since she’d sat down.

“Well.” He slid his paperweight to a different corner of his stack. The page on top was a glasses prescription. “It’s slightly more complicated.” This time, he didn’t wait for her to respond. “Section four says that all his heirs will need to be there for the will to be read. So you’ll need to bring your siblings.”

“What?”

“You’re the only ones mentioned in the will, so that’ll be all.”

“How many are there?”

“What?”

“How many siblings do I have?”

 “Three.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

Tent canvas snapped over Bonito's head.

“I found you because I heard about your accident,” the Executor said. “I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t that bad.”

“If you’ll flip to the back, you’ll find everything we know about them. Do you have any questions?”

“How will I find them?”

The Executor handed her the Magic 8 Ball.

“Thanks.” She flipped it over, shook it, and held it up to the desk lamp.

It is decidedly so.

She nodded quickly and shook it again.

Signs point to yes.

She paused, frowned.

Outlook not so good.

Her eyes widened slightly.

Better not tell you now.

Bonito kicked the leg of her chair, frowning at the air. The Executor shifted in his seat. Finally, she handed the paperweight back to him. He replaced it on the stack.

“Anything else?”

She thought. “Can you take a message to my mom?”

The Executor turned his calendar towards him and shrugged. “Sure. I got time.”

“Can I have a pen and paper, please?”

He unclipped his pen from his pocket protector and pushed it across the table, then pulled the glasses prescription off the top of the stack, scanned it, shrugged, and flipped it over. Bonito wrote briefly and carefully, then handed the paper back to him. 

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Bonito folded up her chair with a look of intense concentration, like she was following written instructions, and leaned it against the desk. She turned and walked away across the parking lot with the same steady, ceaseless motion she’d had the first time, but her balance was back now, and she skimmed across the uneven surface like a water bird coming in for a landing.

The Executor tore yesterday’s page off his calendar.