The trash bin outside Pearville Cafe is on fire.
When brittle leaves from a fledgling oak fell overnight, they settled inside the can below and gathered in piles around the metal frame like snow; and when a janitor clocked out of his overnight shift and rushed down the sidewalk to catch his bus, which was early, and tossed his cigarette away, the tiny ember nestled into the veined kindling; and for a long while after that not much happened.
Mae arrives first. She heads to the back of the cafe, never removing her hat or sunglasses. The barista, who recognizes her immediately among the morning rush, motions to the owner. A room divider is erected, her order taken quietly. This is fame. Unable to watch others behind bamboo, Mae knocks a tiny salt shaker against the pepper until flecks fly. Just as she's recognizing her own loneliness, Lucy appears.
“You first,” says Lucy.
“I've changed my mind. I do need help. I need a lawyer.”
“Thank god, I've been so worried.”
The cigarette would have smoldered and burned out if not for a marketing executive cheating on his diet, who tossed the greasy remains of his breakfast sandwich on his way to the commuter train, and whose masculine slam dunk pushed a crumpled ball of oiled paper into dry leaves. Then, the ignition point: a thin stream of smoke twisting into flame.
“What did you want to talk about?” asks Mae.
“Before I say what I'm about to say, please understand that I do it out of concern.” Lucy sighs and opens a thin binder to reveal neat pages—downloaded, resized, printed, photocopied. “You said a thing that got me thinking, so I did a bit of research.”
The barista notices the smoke first. She grabs a water jug and runs outside and realizes her mistake within seconds. Water sinks to the bottom of the bin, and turns into steam that forces the flame skyward, inches from the barista's nose. She places one hand over her face to make sure it's still there.
Inside, Mae hears bustling beyond the room divider but her attention remains on the documents. She runs a damp finger against edges. In scanning dry legal language for any semblance of recognition, her eyes finally fall on the name Courtney Brady. “Is this about my mom?”
“I'll give you the too long, didn't read version. You were born around this date, right?” Lucy points to a highlighted date. Mae was. “Well this is the date of a settlement struck in Chicago.”
“I would have been...” Mae counts on one hand. “Four months old.”
“The details of the settlement are confidential, of course, but it was such a strange coincidence so I kept going, and it turns out the other person involved was a young man named James Laurent, who currently works in the mayor's office but he was just an intern then.” A siren wails in the distance.
The crimson truck pulls up next to the oak tree, and young men spill out in protective jumpers with their gear, then pause to assess the situation, which is mild by firefighting standards. Smoke has blackened low branches. Gawkers slow and stop to watch, sipping on coffee and recording videos on their phones.
Again and again, Mae reads her mother's name until it blurs. “So what does it mean? Is this...”
“Well here's the other thing. I looked up this guy, this James Laurent, and I found out that he has a sister named Angela.”
“Wait, like—”
“Yes. I can tell by your face, yes, exactly. Angela as in Angela Harrington, Ethan's mom. Her maiden name was Laurent.”
“If this guy is my dad...”
A fire that took hours to ignite is extinguished in seconds. Carbon dioxide snuffs out the oxygen and all that remains is a billowing cloud creeping along the sidewalk, sending people scattering in its wake. Firefighters throw up high fives. The barista emerges with a battery-powered fan. At the bottom of the bin, ash trembles.
“Maybe I shouldn't have told you. I just wanted to let you know before someone online finds all this out and it spreads. I guess I wanted you to hear it from me first. Are you okay?”
Mae clutches the bottom of her seat to keep herself from floating away. Her head detaches from her shoulders and hovers shakily in the charred air. What is this smoke? Perhaps she is on fire. Perhaps she has perished in a fire. Perhaps she is dreaming.