The Dying Opossum

I'm driving slowly down a cobblestone street somewhere on the outskirts of Little Havana. It's been about a half hour since Max and I set out for The Great Library and I'm starting to doubt Khost's directions.

The map I've unfolded onto my steering wheel isn't much help either. I could swear I've twisted and turned my way to this same cobblestone street a hundred times.

The few houses I've seen are set back several feet from the road. Maybe we're nowhere near Little Havana, or The Great Library. It's hard to tell. Most of the road signs are either covered by sea grape leaves or completely gone.

I'm trying to get my bearings, but the tropical foliage drapes itself over the road, shutting out all the light. If I'm reading Khost's map correctly, we may be on Tome Court, a few blocks east of the Library, or we may be lost.

I turn down Broadcast's "Corporeal." It's not helping me feel any more at ease.

My Camry makes a slight groaning noise and I instinctively pat the steering wheel.

Please don't die on me.

I hit the gas and hear a loud thump in front of the car. Oh god. I pull my car over and step out to investigate.

At first I don't see anything except a few dead branches. Maybe all this driving in circles is starting to get to me. But before I turn back to my car, I see it. It's an opossum. I crouch down over it as it breathes in short, raspy breaths. A dark red pool starts to gather beneath it. Him.

"Oh god! I'm sorry," I say, helplessly. I thought opossums only came out at night.

I look at Max, as if he's going to tell me what to do. He turns and flies back into the car.

I can't leave the opossum. It's like when something really terrible happens, an accident, and it takes you a few minutes to take your eyes off of it. Something terrible has happened.

"Francie." Maybe because I'm still in shock, I think Max is calling me, but I can see him peering out from inside the car. I look down at the little lump of fur.

"It's okay," says Opossum. "I needed to speak to you. So now I can. Don't look at me like that. I said it's okay. But listen. I only have a minute."

"Okay," I manage to say.

"Your grandma," he gasps. "Said. To tell you. It's the order. Someone. Has upset. The order. Of things."

"I don't understand," I say. "Grandma...?"

"Questions. No time. For questions. Francie. The order. Has been. In place. A long time. Longer than you. Or me. Or any of the others. Longer even. Than. The Great Library." The opossum weakly cranes his neck to look up. There, above him and the smooth red bark of a gumbo limbo tree is the towering dome of a building.

"But my grandma. She shows up, disappears, then sends you...?"

"The bottle. It's. Not safe. Because. Of you. There was. No delivery. Now. The order. Has shifted. Now. Someone. Lost. Has. Been found." Opossum's eyes start to turn glassy. Though hardly coherent, his words have their intended impact.

"Someone lost," I whisper. I place my hand over Opossum's trembling side.

"Good night," says Opossum, staring up at the dark canopy of trees. "I mean. Good day."