Ben squats in the dust at the edge of town, watching the black birds with red, featherless heads circle above him. They're called vultures, he thinks—were called that in the before time, at least—but now they're just birds. The names of things don't matter anymore. And whatever they're called, they're waiting for me to die so they can eat me. When they do, I won't have a name. Not to them. I know that. I've always known it.

The sky is black. It has been that way for almost as long as Ben can remember. There was a time when screaming ships shot across the sky, from one end to the other like racers on a track. The sky was blue then, and there were clouds. Clouds that looked like dogs (a brown puppy I knew named Buster) and ducks and ladders and even spaceships (oh how they shot across the sky!). He can see them on the edge of his memory. The ships, trailing fire. The clouds, fluffy and white. He doesn't miss them—can't miss something he never really knew— but there's still a feeling there, buried. Maybe it's jealousy for those who did know the clouds. All he knows is the scorched sky. Knows it too well. My heart's the same color¸ he thinks.

When his business is done, Ben pulls up his overalls, clasps them across his shoulders, and walks away from the desert toward the center of the last dying town on the last dying rock in the entire universe. There are houses on the outskirts. There are porches on those houses, and on those porches, people. They sit and stare at Ben with blank, dirty faces as he walks by. Their eyes are black, like the sky. Just like Ben's. He's careful not to look to either side of the road. If he does, maybe they'll do more than just stare. And they don't say a thing. That's the worst part.

When Ben gets to the center of town, he stops in his tracks. He clenches both fists at his side, digging his yellowed nails into his palms. The woman with the black hair is coming.

She stops, towering over him. "Look at you," she sneers, her trench coat swirling.

Ben looks down at his soiled denim, but doesn't speak.

"Out there doing your business in the dirt like an animal?" she shrieks.

"I'd like to do it in your hand," he whispers.

She's upon him at once. Her hand with its long fingers and red painted nails strikes his face, leaving an angry, throbbing welt. It feels like fire ants.

"You know better than to talk back to me, boy." Her eyes are blue. They're on fire like the sky was in the before time, before it went black. "Have you forgotten what happened last time?"

Ben hasn't forgotten. He can look at the scar running down his left arm and remember. And there are other scars that run deeper.

"What about your manners?"

Ben lowers his head. "What's the point?"

"The point?" Her laugh is bitter, triumphant. "I'm the point, don't you see? I'm the last admirable woman in this godforsaken world, Benjamin. I feed you, don't I? Clothe you? So the vultures don't swoop down and take you and the rest of them away? Yes, I do. Aren't I merciful? Aren't I?" She shouts the last part, cocking her arm again.

"Yes, yes," Ben answers, his head still down. Just birds, he thinks. Names don't matter, not even mine. He doesn't see her lower her arm again.

"Look at me." He raises his head, his eyes narrow slits. "Yes, yes, what?"

He waits for a moment, letting his anger subside. "Madame," he finally says. She cares about the names of things. Especially her name.

"That's better. Now, run along. And remember you're supposed to be fixing my fence. Today."

And then she's gone.

Ben watches her walk down the dusty street where the black tar surface used to be. Asphalt¸ he tells himself. That's what they called it, before it all crumbled into dust. His mind wanders to a green field beside a narrow asphalt road. He can smell the fresh tar, hear his father's voice. It will all be over soon, he promises. Don't you worry. A lifetime ago. Ben hits himself on the head three times for three words, before he forgets. Fix the fence.

Ben has mended other things for the Madame. Reshingled her roof two years ago while the dark birds watched, waiting for their dinner to fall and break its neck. Fixed her brick chimney the year before that. He'd repainted the entire outside of her home with a single brush just a month ago; he still had the callouses to show for it. And now, her stupid fence. He knew she'd have boards for him that looked brand new—like they were just milled. Shiny nails in a see-through package. And a tool to drive the nails in. A hammer. Where she gets them, Ben doesn't know. He doesn't think too much about it.

She needs that fence, Ben figures. Needs it real bad. He's seen what happens when the townsfolk aren't fed properly. They congregate outside her gate, mouths wide and black eyes staring. They never say a thing. Sometimes, when she's too long with it, one of them will go out to the edge of town and lie down and let the dark birds take them away. To the birds, the people have no names.

***

Ben had a friend, once.

Her name was Daphne. He thinks about her often, in quiet moments, mostly as he's lying on his cot in the darkness of his room. No, that's not right, he tells himself. She called herself Daphne. She never told me the name her father gave her. Still, hers was the only name that ever mattered.

The first time Ben met Daphne, she was carrying two buckets filled to the brim with water (before the well had gone dry). The water sloshed every time she took a step, splashing on her bare feet. She didn't mind at all—it actually made her smile. Her eyes were still mostly green then, the dark black tendrils only starting to creep in from the edges. When she smiled, her eyes smiled too.

"By the time you get back to town, you're gonna be down to one bucket, I'm afraid," Ben joked. "Half in each."

She stopped, searching her mind for the right response—one that sparkled like glass, but didn't cut as deeply. When she'd settled on one, she set both buckets down and crossed her arms. "That may be so, but I have time to change if I like. Looks like it's too late for you—you're already down to half a brain."

When she laughed, it was the sound of a rolling brook on a clear, spring day.

***

Ben walks toward the Madame's house in the same dusty overalls and tattered underwear he always wears. The black bottoms of his bare feet hiss and scrape against the packed earth. Pick up your feet when you walk, his father used to say, but he doesn't hear those words anymore. His father's been gone a long time. Those old words are just as cracked and dry as the hands Ben will use to fix to the Madame's fence.

What use is any of that now? Ben thinks. What good has it done us? We destroyed ourselves anyway, despite our names. Despite picking our feet off the floor. Despite it all.

The Madame's house appears up ahead of him, its windows lit with magic light. Not magic. You know what it is, dummy. Electricity. It's not magic just because none of the other houses have it. They never have, as far as Ben can remember. And Ben knows where it comes from. He can already hear the humming of the machines that make it for the Madame.

The house sits upon a hill. It's almost night now, he knows; if he squints his eyes just right, he can make out a circular shape (the sun!) dipping below the horizon and peeking through the black sky like stone ridges through rubbing paper. He only knows what it looks like because he saw the yellow ball of fire in the before time. He remembers that sky and its colors. Now it just shuffles through shades of black.

At the bottom of the hill is a twelve-foot high fence with thick boards. Some of them are greyed with time, others not so. At the center, an intricate metal gate adorned with the image of an anchor on one side and a diving bell on the other. Ben doesn't recognize either.

Behind the gate is the Madame. Waiting. She saw me coming, Ben thinks. She always sees.

"Benjamin," she says, glancing at her wrist. There's a timekeeper on it. "Does this look like today to you?"

"But it's still day," he says. "Besides, I've worked by the big light before."

Her cheek twitches and her nostrils flare as her face stretches into a disapproving frown.

"I'm sorry," Ben offers.

"Fine," she says, appeased. She bends down and flicks a switch. A large spotlight turns on with a clang, bathing the left side of the fence in light. Ben can see the part of the fence that has rotted away—which only appears to encompass a handful of boards—and the stack of new boards the Madame has piled on the other side.

"You aren't afraid the light will draw them?" she wonders.

"They're harmless enough." Ben glances back at the town. "Just like me, I reckon."

"Give yourself a little credit, Benjamin. You're smarter than they are." She takes a step forward. Now illuminated by the spotlight, Ben sees she's no longer wearing her trench coat. His eyes wander to the two perky breasts which peek out of the low-cut top she's wearing. When she notices, she laughs and covers her chest with her hand.

"You naughty thing," the Madame coos.

Ben acts caught, lowering his eyes quickly. He doesn't think of the Madame that way— wouldn't touch her if he could—but sometimes he wants her to think he does. Ben is smarter than the Madame thinks. One day he'll show her just how smart he is, he tells himself, but not today. Today is for mending fences and for the reward that follows. Food. He hasn't eaten in two days.

When she realizes he's not going to ogle her, her face darkens. "Get to work!" she shrieks. "I expect this to be done before midnight!" She turns and stomps up the steps toward the front door.

Midnight has no real meaning to Ben; there is no moon and all the hours of the night are the same. He gets to work quickly anyway.

The spotlight does not draw a crowd like the Madame thinks it will. Only a single person from town shows: a young girl who can't be more than six years old. She's wearing a torn (used to be) blue dress that once had lace at the bottom, still does on one of the sleeves. Her hair is in pigtails. She stands just beyond the edge of the light, clutching some stuffed animal tightly to her chest. Ben doesn't see her black eyes watching him, but he knows they are. He tries not to think about them.

***

Ben remembers sitting in the dust at the far edge of town—the side opposite the Madame's house—many months after he and Daphne had become friends.

"She can't see us over here, Daphne," Ben said. "I promise." Ben liked to say her name. It felt like fresh rainwater on his tongue.

"I don't trust her, Ben. She sees everything." Daphne sat with her knees clutched to her chest; her hair, so fair it was almost silver, was pulled back with a piece of twine. Ben liked it that way, but never told her. He'd never told her any of the things he felt about her.

"Well, we're not doing anything anyway." We're only friends, he thinks.

"We're not even supposed to be around each other." Daphne straightened up, tucking her chin to create a second one underneath. "I don't need another mouth to feed!" she screeched in a mocking voice much higher than her own. "I see how you two look at each other!" Then she lowered her voice, leaned over, and cupped one hand over the side of her mouth: "What I really want is to be between you!"

Ben doubled over in laughter, rolling onto the ground and clutching his stomach. Daphne followed suit soon after. They had lain there for some time, staring up at the black sky and talking between intermittent bursts of giggling. Ben had laughed for so long the salt from his tears made the corners of his eyes raw. That's how it always was when he was with Daphne—pleasure and pain, locked in an endless battle. And that was the Madame's doing.