Only a Monster by Vanessa Len Page B

yesterday. Joan looked down at herself. She was filthy. Her black tank top was stiff with dried blood.
    â€œHere.” Aaron threw something at her. It was his jacket again. “And here,” he added. He unlocked his phone and dropped it into her hand.
    â€œWhat’s that for?”
    â€œIs there anyone you still care about in this time?” he said. “Anyone still alive?”
    Joan’s stomach dropped. Oh.
    She’d been avoiding thinking about Dad. Whenever she did, she found herself too close to losing it. Dad was the real world. He was school runs and Friday night sci-fi movies; he didn’t belong in this nightmare. He didn’t know about any of this. She shook her head.
    â€œIt’s up to you,” Aaron said. “But this could be the last time you speak to them.”
    The room was disgusting in the daylight. There were cigarette burns on the carpet and weird streaky stains on the quilts. Joan didn’t let herself look too closely at them.
    â€œMake it quick,” Aaron said. “We need to be at the Pit in forty minutes.”
    â€œThe Pit?”
    Aaron gave her an impatient look. “It’s where we’re going to steal human time.”
    Aaron gave her what privacy he could, standing with his back to her, staring out the window, hands in his pockets.
    Joan checked herself with the camera app. Her expression was strange, but her face wasn’t scratched up or anything. Good enough. As she dialed, Aaron shifted his weight.
    In her mind’s eye, she saw Edmund lift his gun again and point it at her head. She watched Nick hurl the sword into Edmund’s chest.
    â€œHello?”
    Joan jumped. “Dad?”
    The video appeared. Dad’s familiar, sensible face. “Hi, Joan!” He beamed. He was wearing his new glasses with the thick black frames. He was having afternoon tea at Aunty Wei Ling’s place. There was thick toast and kaya jam on his plate, and plastic bags of mangosteen and longan.
    For a second Joan was right on the edge of bawling. She bit the inside of her cheek hard.
    â€œIt’s Joan,” Dad said to someone off-screen, and then Aunty Wei Ling’s voice went: “Say hello to Joan!”
    â€œHello!” Joan’s two-year-old cousin, Bao Bao, shouted. The image shook, and then Dad’s face blurred away, and Bao Bao’s pointy little face filled the screen. “NÄ­ hăo. NÄ­ hăo.”
    â€œNÄ­ hăo, Bao Bao,” Joan said.
    Bao Bao said something then in Hakka, or maybe Mandarin. Joan couldn’t always tell the difference.
    â€œEnglish, ah!” Aunty Wei Ling said. “Joan speak English.”
    The screen tipped over again. Joan saw the ceiling with its big slow-moving fan, and then a blur of the rest of the table—coffee, a bowl of half-boiled eggs, and then Dad again, smiling.
    â€œHaving a good time in London?” he asked.
    Joan made herself nod. She’d never wanted to be somewhere as badly as she wanted to be there at Aunty Wei Ling’s house with Dad—eating toast with eggs and kaya jam and drinking coffee that tasted like flavored sugar.
    â€œWe’re going to that crab place you like for dinner,” Dad said.
    â€œNext time, you have a holiday here!” Aunty Wei Ling shouted off-screen, and Dad laughed.
    â€œWhat else have you been doing?” Joan asked.
    She listened greedily as Dad talked about a trip to the bird park yesterday. Bao Bao had seen a cassowary. He came to stand beside Dad and held up his hand above his head to show Joan how tall it had been. It was from Australia. They were going to an island tomorrow. Joan smiled in what she hoped were the right places and wished that they would talk forever.
    â€œYou’re quiet today,” Dad said to her.
    There was movement behind the phone as Aaron shifted again. Joan glanced at him. He made a wrap-it-up gesture.
    â€œYeah, just woke up. Still sleepy.” Joan made herself