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Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Babe Snake is Back on Her BS 1

Since Rabbit died-or-disappeared, Babe Snake doesn’t like to call him for help. When he shows up at the house, she might pretend not to see. If she needs a bucket or tar, if she needs a pocket knife with a razor for a blade, if she needs a stack of the documents they smuggled out of Big Think and buried up by Monument Rock, he often brings it. He lets himself in while she lies still and the children presumably sleep. How spooky the banal sound of keys in the door become when they’re Rabbit’s keys. He drops what she needs in the sticky kitchen. Other times, he doesn’t. Other times she goes without or finds a way. But today is different. She needs to know what Frog played before he left, and Rabbit’s one of the few people who will understand why. Babe met Rabbit when she first got to Big Think. He didn’t seem like a guy who would later die-or-disappear. He seemed like a man for whom a script had been written. He seemed like that and he was also a window through whose glass thick light stilled to fabric. Babe sat before him and the light wove a blanket around her. In her firsts, she wasn’t reluctant to wear someone else’s brilliance atop her own. She thought hers so obvious, so visible. It almost seemed polite to clothe it. Big Think would know her, anywhere, wouldn’t it? She and Rabbit were assigned to the same region. Some days they were considering the drift force that occurred between subway train and rat colony. Others they spent fourteen hours separating shades of red into their respective bins. Marshes, archives, gardeners’ apartments. They worked wherever the memos told them to, they did whatever they were assigned, but not without weighing the consequences. The consequences just never weighed enough. This scale never tips, Rabbit said, and clapped once.