august 10th, 2019, 7:32 a.m.

It was a good day to go shopping.

Julien awoke in his grimy, burnt orange motel room to petrichor and the slow rhythm of morning rain. He rolled over and faced the popcorn ceiling, laying a light hand over his chest, imagining a heartbeat kicking beneath his ribs where there was none. Sera's fingernails were ghosts across his skin. We could do it. We could own everything.

Julien didn't want everything. He just wanted to feel alive again.

He brushed his teeth with a drug store toothbrush and drug store toothpaste, flashing his fangs at himself in the mirror, and made himself crappy coffee (only decaf was left) with the in-room coffee machine. Standing at the window and watching the raindrops trickle down the glass, he called his realtor.

"Mr. Morales," said Herbert. Julien was fairly sure this man was the last one on Earth to be named Herbert. "It's rather early for this, don't you think?"

Julien rested his styrofoam coffee cup on the edge of the windowsill, glaring at it, as if only his eyes would keep it from tipping. "I'm tired of living out of a motel, Herb," he said into the phone. "Therefore, I'm issuing you a challenge."

Herbert the Realtor sighed, his voice still heavy with sleep. "A challenge?"

"I want to find the place today," Julien said. "I want to find it and buy it and be done with it all today. Can you do that?"

A pause. Julien tilted his head against the glass.

Herbert said, "No."

"Great," said Julien. "I'll meet you at the Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue in fifteen. You're a black coffee sort of guy aren't you? Yeah, you would be. I'll have it for you then."

He clicked the phone off and set it on the desk. For a while longer he breathed in the rain and watched as it washed the city in gray and blue, then he packed up and headed out.

For it being the capital city of one of the most powerful nations on the globe, Julien was unimpressed. He'd left San Diego expecting this strange, alternate universe called the District of Columbia to ooze patriotism and liberty and the American dream—but the apartments were cramped and bare, all white cement and dark floors. The townhouses were charming, at least, but most were far too close to everything and privacy was of the utmost importance to Julien. The most excitement he got in the five hours he spent with Herbert was when a stray cat stopped to nuzzle against his ankle.

As the cat approached, Herbert and Julien were standing in front of the third townhouse they'd seen that day. Julien sort of thought it looked like all the others: red-bricked, black-shuttered, vine-covered. It smelled like rotting wood and old people and he wasn't even inside it yet.

The cat sidled up from an alleyway a few paces down the street, a gray and white one with piercing, yellow eyes and a notch in one ear. Julien watched it press its forehead against his pant leg and tried not to move but then gave in and picked up the creature with a sigh.

Herbert yelped, jumping away. "Oh, you can't! It might have fleas."

Julien rolled his eyes, cradling the animal against his chest and scratching behind its notched ear. It was wet and shivering and Julien was struck with the sudden realization that he would spontaneously combust if he ever set him down. "We all might have fleas, Herbert. Price?"

Herbert was silent for a moment before he seemed to realize the subject had shifted. He lifted his clipboard, rummaging through his papers. "Ah," he said. "It's sitting at about 175 right now."

"Bucks?"

"Thousand bucks, Julien. Thousand."

Julien clicked his teeth, still holding the cat against him, and turned to give the house a better look. He cocked his head. "Is that a lot?"

Herbert shot him a concerned look. "Jesus—it's 50 grand over your budget."

Julien had thought originally that being alive long enough would make him very wise. He'd know how to handle money and taxes and all of life's more distressing matters with an ease most people would never attain. What they did not tell you about living forever was that, after a while, you just stopped caring about things like that.

Above them, the clouds parted, and for the first time since early morning, sunlight filtered down to the Earth again. Julien's cells hummed to life beneath his skin; against all reason, he bent to put the cat down and raked a shaking hand back through his hair. "Uh," he said, clearing the stoop in two steps and motioning for Herbert to follow. "Let's take a look inside, yes? Yes, yes. Let's do that. Inside."

His predictions had been correct. It did, in fact, smell like rotting wood and old people, probably because the floor had several gaping holes in it and the previous owners had been old people. Julien sighed and turned in a slow circle, eyeing the dusty chandelier that hung above their heads as young sunlight glinted across it. The place was vacant, merely an expanse of creaky floorboards and walls whose wallpapers were peeling, but God, how tired he was of searching.

Herbert read off the townhouse's stats while Julien walked into the kitchen, flicking dust off the laminate countertops and thrusting open the above-sink window. It was dust and dust and more dust.

Herbert's clipboard clattered against the countertop, too loud, too sharp, in Julien's ears. "So?"

Julien turned slowly, trying to act like he hadn't flinched. "I'll take it."

He expected Herbert to be surprised, for his jaw to drop and his clipboard to clatter again. Julien, after all, was used to surprising people.

Instead, Herbert just shook his head, more disappointed than stunned. "You're a madman. There's a reason this place has been on the market for so long—"

"I know," said Julien, turning back to the window. "It's because no one's bothered to give it a chance."

He offered to buy Herbert another coffee but Herbert said he had a meeting back at the office. Julien was wise enough to know that was an excuse, mostly because he'd used that excuse or at least something like it many times himself. Julien watched the poor man scurry down the street and jump into his tiny, clown-like sedan, and scoffed to himself. It wasn't the first time Julien had sent people running.

There was a convenience store not more than two blocks away from his soon-to-be home, but the sun was out and glaring, so Julien drove there. His car was an emerald 2001 Jeep Cherokee he had owned pretty much since 2001 and had yet to upgrade. He kept it mostly clean except for the coin holder that had slowly filled up with gum wrappers over the years and the picture of his long ex-girlfriend shoved in the far left of the dash. Sometimes he looked at that picture, her smiling face turned towards the camera as she laughed, reddish hair tossed down one shoulder. Most of the time he tried to forget that it, or she, even existed.

Julien shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans and made his way into the corner store, head ducked against the sun's rays. He'd agreed to a beach trip once, which had been fun, until it wasn't. He'd spent the next three days vomiting up nothing and shivering in his own skin. Never again.

The little bell dinged above Julien's head—again, he flinched—and he went straight for the canned food aisle. He was browsing the various flavors and qualities of canned tuna when his cell phone rang.

Only a small number of people had his number and were still alive. Julien ran through several hypotheses in his head before answering.

"Hello—"

"When were you going to tell me?"

Julien paused. It was not Sera and thank God it was not Sera and thank God it was not Sera. "Tell you what, Fritz?"

"Don't play dumb, Jules," said Fritz, his voice warm and pulsing with frustration. Julien could picture him, wherever he was, pacing across the floor. He imagined Fritz would be making a lot of noise, too, considering his affinity for all things black and leather and shiny. Squeak, squeak. Pause. Squeak squeak squeak. "I mean when were you going to tell me that you're on the East Coast. No, worse than that, that you're in Washington, DC?"

"Fritz, I—"

"You're a cold bastard, you know that? Cold, cold, cold. I spend a good twenty years gallivanting across Asia with you—because you wanted to, mind you, I was quite cozy where I was—and then you disappear without saying anything and all of a sudden you're back and you don't bother to tell me. I had to hear it from Sera. Sera, of all people! Seraphine Kozlov."

Julien winced at the name as it came out of Fritz's mouth. Julien stooped, examining the lower level of canned fish. They had sardines, too. Did cats like sardines? "When did you talk to Sera?" asked Julien, trying to keep his voice steady.

"She paid me a surprise visit at my apartment last night," muttered Fritz. Again, Julien winced. Sera made a habit of being the uninvited guest no one would ever invite anyway. He still remembered the time he had woken to find his apartment ransacked and his blood stash miraculously missing. Seraphine Kozlov. How beautiful, how ugly, how strange. "She said you ditched her and she was wondering if I knew where you were. And I said, 'No, I haven't the slightest idea where Julien Morales is, because last time I saw the guy we were drinking Cerveza Negras in Manila. It is entirely a surprise to me that he's even in the tri-state area!'"

"That's what you said?"

"That's what I said."

"Fritz," Julien started. He decided on a no salt added, vegetable oil-filled can of tuna, placing it in the handheld basket he'd picked up but probably didn't need. He stopped by the coolers for a bottle of water and headed for the register. "I've only been here for three days. You have to give me a second. Besides, I didn't exactly know you were here, either."

Fritz was quiet for a moment, as if he hadn't considered that note. "I told you I was going to Baltimore. I said that, didn't I?"

"You said that nearly a century ago, my friend."

"Well, not all of us move around all the time like migrating salmon."

"Weird analogy, but okay," said Julien, placing his goods on the conveyor belt and sparing the cashier an apologetic grin. Julien ruffled in his pocket for cash and came up with a wrinkled ten dollar bill. "And yes, actually most of us do. The only reason you can get away with staying in one place is because you never go outside."

Fritz was quiet for another moment. Then, a sigh. "Where were you before now?"

"California, mostly. San Diego."

Julien handed the bill off and waved the change away, taking his bag and once again beginning his brisk walk across the parking lot. In his ear, Fritz asked, "Why did you leave?"

Vaguely, Julien remembered Iman asking the same thing. Vaguely, he remembered lying to her.

"I have something I need to take care of," said Julien, ducking into his car. He waited, the keys still in his hand and not yet in the ignition. "I don't know. I have something I need to do."

That wasn't precisely the truth, either. Or at least it wasn't all of it.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine," snapped Fritz. "Just don't make something up."

Julien was struck at the sudden bite to his tone. "Wait—"

"I'm calling you later," said Fritz. "Don't ignore me."

The phone clicked in Julien's ear; he exhaled and tossed the phone in the passenger's seat.

He returned to the dusty, old people-scented townhouse and opened the can of tuna, leaving it on the doorstep.