Most of St. Bernard you're going to find is families. It's your fathers, your sisters, the church you went to all your life, schools you went to that your children now go to -- now everyone's scattered.

There is a rustle of dead leaves. Dried sap, a branch crack, the whirring teeth of Mr. Omaru's saw. My father--my real father--is a limb that got axed off the family tree a long time ago now. My mother coughs and cleans phantom juices off her silver with a cloth doily. My sisters clench their knives.

It is a Christian heresy, and church fathers spent years dealing with this stuff.

Fathers should make you feel safe.

Say to the seceded States: "Wayward sisters depart in peace."

I look for my sister but it's hopeless. The goggles are all fogged up. Every fish burns lantern-bright, and I can't tell the living from the dead. It's all just blurry light, light smeared like some celestial fingerprint all over the rocks and the reef and the sunken garbage. Olivia could be everywhere.