Hiding fandom in the underwear drawer since 1977

There wasn’t anything for Morgan to do. Anything she could do. She was sure that she’d be able to organize Harold’s trunk better, make everything fit just so, but she’d have to fold it all, and Morgan had never been very good at the folding.

There were distractions in fabrics, like that silver thread that Crows could see. She saw it too, in the perfect rows of weave, and she could count the vertical threads and the horizontal threads and imagine how they would have been set up on a loom. Four by four by four by four, over and over.

But folding the fabric she’d have to leave that to someone else. “If you fold them, I could put things in your trunk,” she said, but Harold had smiled at her and said he had a way he needed to do it, with those things needed for a sea voyage on top and the rest on the bottom and she wouldn’t know those things.

But I do know those things. I remember. You were very neat when we sailed here, so many months ago. I always remember, Harold. Your kit was in the right hand corner, on top of a nightshirt you never wear. The soft shoes you sometimes wear on board for traction and protection from splinters during calm days go on the left, with the soles against the side so they don’t dirty the two shirts. You’ll wear your tall boots when you walk to the dock and sail away.

The trunk had a false bottom. Morgan could see that. It sounded differently, hollow-ish and the trunk wasn’t as deep as it should be – smaller on the inside than it was on the outside, so there were secret compartments.

Morgan felt like that’s how she was, broken into so many pieces and compartments. Because she was so broken, she had always been good at puzzles and patterns. She knew how to make each piece fit just so, in trunks and spreadsheets and bricks in buildings, she could see the threads no one but the Crows could see, count all the beans in a jar, and knew when things didn’t add up. She just never could make her own pieces fit.