We're not strangers anymore.

How alone must it feel to be a changeling? Neither fungus nor slug, yet something in between, a part of neither, with no history and no legacy. Once a changeling dies, it is as though they have never been. Who or what can carry on their memory?
—Anastasia Massimi, Slugnomicon: A Guide To Brain Slug Spirituality (unpublished draft)

The afternoon was busier than normal. Most of them were faces Mel didn't recognize as regulars. More than a few had on purple headbands, or purple bands around their upper arms. Ha-Yoon saw the first one of those and frowned, ordering Jordan and Jenny to take care of something in the back room, which left Mel to handle the register for the whole crowd.

Mel had basic training on the register, although mostly the brain slug hosts handled it. The Cosmic Fill-Up had simplified the interface to the point where practically anyone with a pulse could operate it. Even the minimal social function of asking questions was obviated by little signs and glowing letters that could appear on the shield above the counter. For brain slug hosts, who couldn't speak verbally, that was a plus. Most people didn't even try to engage them in conversation. To Mel, it was slightly unnerving how rote and mechanical the role was, how little the customers seemed to see him.

It made him wonder if he was treating Jordan and Jenny the same way. Taking them for granted.

"Slug cultists," Ha-Yoon explained, as the shift ended and most of the traffic had died down. "They've been looking at the mural out back. Hopefully they don't recognize your paramours."

"My what?" Mel asked.

"Your partners. Girlfriends. Fuckbuddies-with-added-responsibilities," the manager said with a smirk. "I'm buying you a dictionary for Christmas."

"Right," Mel said. He caught sight of Mollie's Protoss pull in. He turned to his 'paramours.' "Looks like my ride is here. I'll see you tonight at home and—"

Mel dropped his voice into a whisper and drew them both into a hug.

"I feel like I've been neglecting you lately. What wth all the stuff that's been happening. But I'll make it up to you," he promised. "I know I don't say it as much as I said, but I care about you both."

Jordan and Jenny each gave him a kiss before they left. Mollie did not beep her horn, though she looked like she wanted to. Mel waved and opened the passenger-side door. He watched Jenny and Jordan walk away, towards their apartment, hand in hand. As they had before they'd met him. Something about that thought made his heart ache a little.

Mollie had earrings in today, small and sparkly gems; a black business coat and matching pants, a tight red sweater, and red-and-black flat heels. Mel, in his blue Cosmic Fill-up shirt, black jeans, and hoodie, felt underdressed. He ran a hand over his chin, glad he'd shaved this morning. He didn't want to look too scrubby in front of Mollie's mother.

The inside of the Ford Protoss was all pale yellow trim and blue edge-lighting, as if powered by psychic crystals. The vehicle had an auto-driver mode, but Mollie didn't use it. He watched her shift gears manually, eyes and head flicking from mirrors to the dashboard-mounted smartscreen that showed various camera angles around the car. Mel, who had never learned to drive—after all, Seacouver had decent public transportation and the cost of a vehicle seemed immense when measured in how much ramen you could buy for the same amount of money—was impressed at how she moved through traffic, deftly ignoring small warning tones when she got too close to cars and trucks around her, and pulled in, without any major hassle, to Poulet Frit Kentucky.

"Why is it PFK and not KFC?" Mel wondered aloud. He also noticed that Mollie had a manilla folder tucked under one arm.

"In Quebec, we preferred the French name. After the chain was broken up, some franchises remained in private ownership. This is a rare one. Same original recipe, but they also have poutine, pommes frites, pain au chocolat, and macarons," Mollie said.

Mel held the door open for Molly, then followed her inside. It smelled like fried chicken and baking bread. Most of the interior seemed to be molded from a single piece of plastic; the red and white chairs and tables extruded from the walls, though if Mel looked closely, he could see the seams. There was a central counter area, through which Mel could see the kitchen, full of young men and women in smart uniforms, and a dining area that consisted mostly of small booths.

In one of them sat an older version of Mollie. She stood up as the two of them entered, and Mel saw she was both taller and thinner than her daughter, the skin darker and richer, yet the eyes were almost the same. She was as tall as Mel, in fact, and while there were touches of silver in her tightly coiffed black hair, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were neither many nor deep. Her own business dress was maroon with silver accents, the hem falling just below the knee.

Mollie and her mother smiled and hugged one another with an honest, open affection that made Mel's heart ache. Their lips pressed together in a friendly kiss. He couldn't remember ever having received such a hug as a child.

"Ma mère, this is Mel," she said. "Mon frère. Mel, this is a mère, Lucie Maguire."

Mel wasn't sure how to handle this. A hug seemed out of the question, so he stuck out his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said.

Then their eyes met. Mel could not read the expression in those eyes, but for a moment the older woman's expression faltered.

"Oh!" she said. "You look just like your father."

Lucie brushed past Mel's outstretched hands and enveloped him in her arms. He was too keenly aware of her breasts crushing into his chest, the tight squeeze. Her lips brushed his. No real pressure, but it shocked him just the same. Not sure where to place his hands, he settled on putting them around her back and giving a light squeeze in return. She held him there a moment longer before releasing him.

In the booth, Mel took the inside and Mollie the outside; her mother was on the opposite side. The flat tabletop came alive with menus in French and English. Mel frowned as he looked through the options, not sure what to order and looking, instinctively, at the cheapest options.

Lucie would have none of that. Her fingers jabbed neatly at the table, selecting a "Festin familial," with salads, drinks, and a side of pommes frites with poutine.

"My treat," she explained. "Now . . . I'm sure you have questions about your father."

"I mean, I don't want to intrude on personal matters," Mel said, glancing at Mollie. "But you knew my father. What was he like?"

Lucie closed her mind for a moment, and sank into the back of the booth. For a second, Mel felt her toe brush his leg under the table.

"I met James at university," she explained. "My husband and I were already married. Seamus already knew he couldn't have children. So we had no qualms about swinging, really. We both took precautions, but as it came time to graduate, I knew I wanted a child, very badly. Medical options were expensive. Seamus and I discussed the matter with your father. He agreed to be an unofficial sperm donor. Nothing changed, really, except for six weeks neither of us used protection and kept exclusively to ourselves. By the time I had my diploma, I was eight weeks pregnant with Mollie dearest."

"And then you and mon père moved to Montreal," Mollie said.

"Yes. Seamus had a job offer; I had family there. We bought a house, started in our careers, and here we are, almost twenty years later," Lucie said.

Mollie's face went blank. Mel saw her slide the folder across the tabletop to her mother. Lucie raised one eyebrow and opened it. There, Mel saw, was a printout of the photo that Mel had found online, of Lucie pregnant.

"Ah," Lucie said. "So you know about that."

"No, we do not," Mollie said, and there was a hint of hurt in her voice. "Explain it to us, please."

Lucie sighed, and her eyelids drooped. Long, elegant brown fingers caressed the print-out image.

"That," the older woman said. "Was when I was pregnant with Melville."

Mel's heart skipped a beat. His whole body jittered, an uncontrollable twitch, muscles tensing and releasing without his conscious effort.

"After James got married, we stayed in touch," Lucie explained. "We were no longer intimate, but he wanted to keep up the friendship, check in on how the baby was doing. Seamus understood, although they were never really friends after I gave birth. Your papa once confided to me that it was very difficult to remain friends with the man who impregnated his wife. A bit old-fashioned but . . . anyway. James said that his wife couldn't bear children. Cancer, damage to the uterus and fallopian tubes. They wanted a surrogate, someone to carry the child to term; I'd already been through one successful pregnancy. So your father and I agreed to an embryo transfer. James's sperm, Sinead's egg, and my womb. It all worked wonderfully."

The drinks arrived, tall paper cups full of sugary liquid and ice. No one touched them.

"The last time I saw you, I was in the recovery room. Sinead had you in her arms. James, the proud father. It is how I always remember both of them," she said, with a sigh. She turned to Mollie: "You actually got to meet him, though you were too young to remember. I remember you stared at him with these huge dark eyes; he gripped your little hand in his own. It was an adorable moment. You didn't want to let him go!"

Mel found himself gripping the edge of the table. Mollie laid her hand on his.

"Then we went our separate ways," Lucie continued. "They had a life back in Seacouver, jobs, an apartment; I had my husband and daughter. We kept in touch through email for a while, but with young children it's so easy to . . . lose track."

Mel could see Mollie's jaw work. Her hand gripped his wrist hard.

"When did you find out they died?" he asked. His voice trembled, heart in his throat. Mel realized he was grabbing the table with both hands, forearms so tensed that it hurt. He wasn't sure what emotion he was feeling right now, but he was feeling a lot of it.

Lucie swallowed. Reached for her cup and took a sip. Then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a little calming ritual that seemed to center her as she sat up straighter.

"I hadn't heard from James in eight months. We didn't find out about their death until the announcement came over the alumni newsletter almost a year later. They had no immediate family, you see, and the state handled the burial. We just saw their names on the death roll with the others who had passed and—we didn't know what happened to you. Whether you had died, or been put up for adoption. It—wasn't our business—"

A pit seemed to open in Mel's stomach. He had only been four. If they had asked—applied—he could have grown up with Mollie. Could have had a home, a family. Mel forced himself to let go of the tabletop, Mollie's hand falling away, sagging back into the bench, consumed for a moment with what-ifs.

Mollie stood up, knuckles on the table, visibly shaking, tears in her eyes.

"Crisse de câlice de tabarnak d'esti de sacrament de trou viarge!" she said. "He was mon frère and you never even looked for him?"

Lucie's mouth was in a tight line before she spoke, and Mel could see the pain in her own eyes. "He wasn't ours! We had no claim to him! We didn't know—"

"Because you never asked! You never told me! I would have—" Mollie almost screamed. She stormed out of the booth and walked away sobbing.

For a moment, Mel and Lucie just stared at each other. Then Mel slid his way out of the booth and went after his sister. He caught up with her in the parking lot as she was unlocking her Protoss, the dull mechanical tones of "My life for Aiur!" ringing out of the speakers.

"Mollie, wait," Mel caught her by the shoulder.

She spun and buried her face into his chest. Mel wrapped his arms around his sister and hugged her as she cried it out. This felt much more natural than earlier. Or maybe Mel was more used to being an emotional tear sponge. Whatever the case, he planted his feet and held her close. The crying jag lasted for a minute or two before the sobs stopped and Mollie began to sniffle.

"It's okay," he said quietly.

"It is not okay," she said. "We could have been—"

"I know," Mel said. "Trust me, I know. But your mom said they hadn't been in touch, didn't know if I was alive or dead, and they already had a precocious little three-year-old daughter running around. Adding a toddler to the mix—adopting from all the way in Quebec—that would have been tough. Look, one thing I learned in the orphanage is that it's better not to have a kid if you can't take care of them than to have one and hope for the best. They chose to focus on raising you. And you're great."

Mollie sniffed. Mel heard the door open and turned to see Lucie standing there, an expression of grief and loss etched on her face.

"Mollie," she said quietly. "The poutine is here. You should eat it before it gets cold."

Cheese curds and wedges of fried potato helped. The Colonel's secret blend of herbs and spices didn't help ease the wound, but it was the best fried chicken Mel had ever tasted, which Mollie would have found sad.

"Ma mère's is better," Mollie said.

"I'll have to make some for you, sometime," Lucie said with a smile. "Seeing as you—are—family now."

"Um—thanks. I'd like that," Mel said.

The weird détente felt more uncomfortable than before. In no small part because Lucie's toe kept finding Mel's leg under the table. He wasn't sure how to handle that, so he did his best to ignore it. And the sidelong glances she cast at him as she delicately devoured a thigh.

It didn't get truly weird until Mollie went to the bathroom, leaving Lucie and Mel alone at the table for a moment.

"You and Mollie aren't—you know," she said, her mouth twisting as if choosing the right word. "Dating?"

Mel's eyes opened wide. "What? No! I mean, she's my sister. And I'm—in a relationship."

"Hmm," Lucie hummed, and her toe moved up past his knee. Mel felt weirdly trapped in the booth, aware Mollie could come back at any moment. "That's probably a good thing. If you're as gifted as your father—and anything like he was at your age—well—"

Her eyes grew distant. As if she wasn't really seeing him.

"I love my husband, I really do. Yet when Mollie told me about you, all the memories came flooding back," she said, her voice dropping to almost a whisper, as if talking to herself. "He was very conscientious, James. Diligent. Considerate. Thorough. Even Seamus never—well—measured up. Oh, he loved your mother; I never doubted that, but if things had been different—he and I might have—but that was a very long time ago. And we can't undo the past."

He cleared his throat, not sure he liked where this was going.

"I am sorry, Mel. It's always easier to see things in hindsight. What we should have done. Opportunities we missed out on. I'm sorry you grew up without a sister—a mother—to love you—" Lucie's eyes seemed to focus on Mel, then. "But now that I am here, well, I'm not your mother, but we can still be—friends. Maybe more than friends."

As Mollie returned, Lucie's foot disappeared, and Mel felt a sense of relief. He wondered if all family dinners were this emotionally fraught and confusing. This one was certainly a bit stranger than the ones he had seen on television.

Soon enough, however, the meal was all over except for the wet wipes and macarons. Mel gave a bare-bones explanation of his existence. Years in the orphanage. Getting an apartment with a brain slug roommate. Finding a job at the Cosmic Fill-Up.

"So . . . when did you start looking for your family?" Lucie asked.

"Ah—well, my neighbor across the hall, Antonio? He attacked his roommate, who was also a brain slug host. Her name is Jenny. When we intervened, he stabbed me in the foot and ran off. Jenny couldn't make her shift, and Jordan had to take care of Jenny, so my manager said I had to come into work—"

"With a stab wound!?" Lucie's voice rose in concern. "Qu'est ce que fuck?"

"Yeah. Um. My manager treated it when I got in, but she sent a blood sample off for DNA testing, and it came up with a match for Mollie! So that's how we met," Mel said. He smiled, although even as he relayed the story, he realized it wasn't very funny.

Mollie took a wet nap and wiped at his face.

"Well," Lucie said. "That's—interesting. I'm going to be in town for a couple of days. I'd like to see you both again. Get to know you better, Mel."

"Sure," Mel said, then, with his brain on autopilot, he added, "I'd like to get to know you more, Mrs. Maguire."

Once the words were out of his mouth, Mel cringed internally. He did not mean for it to come out like that. The older woman smiled. There was something predatory in that smile.

"Please call me Lucie," she said. "We're not strangers anymore, after all."