This is the first of my entries for Cal's Character Contest--each of these bits will be using characters from my NaNo, Among the Infidels. I'd love to get some help with these guys before I begin to write them in earnest.

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[picture 17]

The first winter Zoe spent with her father was also the last. She left the morning he tossed a smashed bottle of fest leftover from Oktober at her cheek, leaving a spiderweb crack in her skin. It bled thick tears onto her Packers sweatshirt as she crouched instinctively, palms scrambling to hold what was left of her flesh in place.

He looked at her, breathing through his nose. The trailer seemed to rock back and forth with his lungs, creaking on its cinderblock fulcrum.

Her heart pounded against its cage, cheek pulsing electric. They waited.

“Goodbye,” she said, and stood up. Her face dripped on her jeans and she turned on her heel and left—left the satellite television with the extra football package, left the bratwurst on the stove and lottery tickets pinned to the wall. Outside, it was just beginning to snow. The flakes mingled with the dead grass and collected in small drifts at the bottom of rusting slides.

A boy in an orange hunting jacket whistled at her, hands cupped around chapped lips. “Where you goin’, Zoe?”

She flipped him off, in accordance with local custom. Her fingers curled themselves into the sleeves of her sweatshirt and she pressed a green-covered fist to her cheek, blood mixing into watery Kool-Aid with the salt that streamed from her eyes.

If Wisconsin was white trash, Sheboygan was a landfill. Its trailer parks teemed with broken lawn chairs and Wal Mart pajamas and long-haired boys, where the only moment of peace was Miller Time. The only establishment that lasted longer than a Hardee’s was Priscilla’s Adult Novelty Emporium. And worst of all for Zoe, there wasn’t a single slanted eye or unintelligible accent north of Racine.

North of Manitowoc, there weren’t even Mexicans.

She walked as far as the highway and stood, the flesh-toned boundary between death and acres of cattle pasture. Her phone felt warm in her hand as she pressed the familiar numbers with her thumb, praying to the powers that be that she got the same coverage in America’s Dairyland.

Greetings, comrades, this is Shuqiao—leave a message if you must.

Zoe swore and walked forward, her cheek beginning to sting. A trucker passing by pressed his horn and it cut through the softness of snowfall, harsh and grating. She glared and hoped he might see it, and pressed speed-dial 3. The phone picked up on the second ring.

“Rounscape?” she breathed.

“This is Leila.”

“Leila.” She let a snort out through her nose and began to cry in earnest—crying so hard her throat burned and she had to wipe her nose on her sleeve. It felt like she was six again, and stupid, but Leila was still Leila and she was still Zoe—she was still Zoe, even if her blood was seeping into her clothes. DNA chains still ripped themselves apart and snapped back together, somewhere deep in her skin, in her bones.

Leila waited. She waited until it was quiet enough to speak and said, in a quiet voice, “What is bad?”

“Is Haroun there, Leila? I’m sorry…”

“Yes, we are watching dating show. Shots of Love, I think…” Her voice faded. “Haroun? It’s Zoe.”

There was a rustling as the phone changed hands. “Hey, babe, what’s––"

“Please do not say ‘curdling your curds’.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry for being state-racist. What’s up? It’s loud where you are.”

“Yeah.” She looked toward the sky—geese were flying in low V’s just below the thick layer of white where the snow was drifting from. When she shifted, frozen gravel crunched beneath her sneakers. “I’m…on the side of the Interstate, actually.”

“You’re on the side of the Interstate. I knew you were a whore, but––"

“Haroun, I’m coming home.”

“You’re coming home.”

“I’m coming home.” She laughed. A thick gust of cold air filled her throat. “I don’t know how I’m getting there, but I’m coming home.”