As Sylvia slowly came to the next morning, the first thing that came to mind was that she was far too old to be sleeping at work. Particurly when she’d fallen asleep at her small desk and now had a horrible cramp in her neck and left shoulder.

  (At least she had set Ink up with an automatic feeder and light switch years ago, though the beta fish would still be grumpy that Sylvia hadn’t come home st night. ‘He’s probably resting on his left hammock, watching the door so he can turn away as soon as I walk in.’ Just the thought made her chuckle.)

  Forcing herself out of her uncomfortable chair, the woman had to pause for a minute until she remember which way the break room was. The glorified hole-in-the-wall always smelled like Roger’s tuna sads or Miss Echo’s burnt coffee, and the single, long, pstic table wobbled when anyone pulled a chair up to it. She tried not to eat there, preferring to bring her own lunch and stay at her desk or order delivery if she had to stay te. ‘There’ll be nothing but cheap donuts and sugary fruit juices,’ Sylvia told herself in an attempt to brace for the upcoming disappointment. Even simple bagels would be nice, but.… ‘Anything else is unlikely and a pleasant surprise.’

  ~

  There were no pleasant surprises for breakfast.

  At least Cecelia seemed happy with her horde of donuts. “You want one?” the kid asked, holding out her white paper pte. Her hair looked like she had tried to brush it out using only her fingers and some water from a bathroom sink, which, given that the intern had also stayed at the agency all night, was likely the case. Sylvia probably should have been more concerned about her own appearance, but she was too sore and too hungry to care at the moment. “I know I took the st chocote with sprinkles,” Cecelia added when she didn’t get an immediate response. “You can take it though, if you want.”

  The kid was probably trying to get some points and leeway but, damn it, Sylvia was hungry enough to take the offered junk food and eat it far faster than she should have. “That was a cavity waiting to happen,” Sylvia muttered, searching for a napkin. And water. Wasn’t there supposed to be paper cups for the sink or water bottles in this crappy breakroom?

  “Yummy, right?”

  “I should cut off your third day for that.”

  ~

  “Another nothing,” Sylvia grumbled, closing the nth report on her screen. The few rge-scale ‘paranormal’ events over the century were either too poorly described to be of any help or contained within a single building or two. She’d found a handful of ‘mysterious’ deaths, usually chokings or drownings, but no ‘ghost bullets’ that couldn't be written off as a good silencer and unobservant bypassers.

  Deciding that she’d earned a break, Sylvia closed her ptop, stretching her neck as she pulled out her phone to quickly check the news. PR was still having issues – they were sticking with the movie projector expnation but most still weren’t buying it. There were lots of questions about the deaths, too. ‘A higher government branch will step in sooner than ter.’ That would get the major pyers to shut up.

  Thankfully, there wasn’t much on the shooting at the restaurant, only a few articles on a handful of no-name news sites. The police had made a statement about the deceased victim and no one was questioning it – everyone was still focused on the damn airship.

  Standing up, the woman made her way out of the building. Rogers was nowhere to be seen but Bobbie and Wilma were groggily staggering out of the break room with matching paper cups of cheap coffee. Miss Echo’s private office door was shut, as was the door that led to the agency’s basement research area. (And who knew what Darryl was messing around with in there.)

  The brisk, early winter morning was a brief shock as Sylvia stepped outside. Leaning against the rough, pin brick wall of the agency, she crossed her arms in an attempt to ward off the chilly breeze. Her jacket was in her car parked a few feet away, but the cold helped Sylvia clear her mind.

  Reaching into her pocket, Sylvia unlocked her phone again. Swiping the news closed, the agent pulled up the information she’d found about the Cecelia’s apartment building. (She had tried to look up the intern as well, but her socials were mostly bnk and everything else was info P.A.R.A.L.L.E.L. already had. ‘She had to be one of the kids that took those ‘internet safety’ warnings seriously.’) Whatever the kid had been messing around with, Sylvia highly doubted it was enough to cause all the chaos of yesterday. And while Darryl was one of the leading nerds in the field, the woman wasn’t convinced that the kid’s goal was to make her own dimensional separator, if only because that still didn’t give a clear motive.

  There wasn’t bck market for the devices; Cecelia certainly wouldn't be able to charge enough or sell enough to make the risk worth it. Any attempt to start up a business around ‘ghosts’ would quickly draw the wrong type of attention from the government. Perhaps the kid meant to offer the tech to one of the country’s enemies, but then why hadn’t she booked a flight as soon as she had the separator and fled?

  “You know Dr. Warrin works at the university here, right?” Cecelia started, clinging to the stolen device. “They’re the one who figured out how the theories on identifying and separating multiple ‘parallel’ worlds and then got in a fight with the government about keeping the stuff quiet?” … “Nope. So, again, when I said they don’t know about this, I really meant it. So don’t go arresting them. Please?”

  When she had been recruited to P.A.R.A.L.L.E.L. three years ago, Sylvia had read up on all the major pyers in the field, including Dr. Warrin. To say the “disagreements” over their research had left some bad blood would be an understatement, but the professor had eventually cooperated with the government.

  Could that be the link Sylvia was missing? Cecelia was in the doctor’s css…. Except that still didn’t give the kid a motive besides ‘help someone with a grudge.’ And if the two were working together, why had everything been set up in the kid’s apartment?

  Scanning through the apartment complex’s website (which was almost as old as the pce itself) on her phone, Sylvia didn’t find any mentions of ghosts. There were multiple “historical facts” that were almost certainly made up and links to stories about some supposedly “famous” people who had lived in the building, but nothing that stood out.

  Closing out of the website, Sylvia moved to the more promising, though not exactly trustworthy, reviews of the pce. Most were indifferent: the cheap rent and close public transport banced out the problems of living in a run-down building. Whoever the ndlord was apparently fixed anything important sooner than ter.

  The one-star reviews, however, were packed with stories of ghost sightings, sudden cold spots, and strange sounds. There were also plenty of notes about “beloved grandparents” or “amazing great-aunts” abruptly dying, with retives ciming either poor living conditions or angry ghosts. The tter had Sylvia rolling her eyes. Nothing she read was comparable to the overp and pulling the agent had witnessed yesterday - all things that could be expined by smaller overps that didn’t matter, imprints, or overactive imaginations.

  Slipping her phone back into her pocket, the agent sighed. As far as she was concerned, the airship was a one-off thing that people would forget about in a week. Maybe two, given the “smooshed” victims. Same with the shooting at the restaurant – the report sent st night after Sylvia and the kid had returned to the agency had been full of properly worded ‘no idea’s and ‘who cares’s. The pair of events in Cecelia’s apartment, however, only added to the mystery surrounding the kid.

  That was fine; Sylvia would figure this out the old-fashioned way, then.

  ~

  Sylvia knew that P.A.R.A.L.L.E.L. (or, more specifically, Miss Echo) required everyone to keep all other agents’ contact information, but the only time she’d had a co-worker reach out was over two years ago. The woman preferred to keep her work and personal lives separate; it was the only smart option, in her opinion. She’d heard far too many stories of the nasty aftermath of work-tainted retionships.

  All of that meant that she was certainly not expecting ‘Wilma Summers’ to pop up on her notifications. Curious, Sylvia picked up the call instead of letting it go to voicemail. “Yes?”

  “This that how you greet everyone?”

  Never mind. She should have let it go to voicemail. “Either get to the point or I’m hanging up, Wilma.” The younger agent had gone out for something; Sylvia assumed it was reted to the ghost blimp case. Miss Echo had put out a reminder notice to the local officials to push any other odd sightings or events straight to the agency.

  “Sorry. I know you’re busy with research, but could you swing by Reed Park? And bring a separator?”

  Sylvia massaged her temple. She’d only returned from her break thirty minutes ago but it wasn’t as if she was making any progress. “Sure,” she said. “But why don’t you have one?” Separators were the sole piece of equipment that agents were told to always bring when going out on cases.

  “Ah.” An embarrassed chuckle. “I forgot to grab one on the way out.” ‘She’s new,’ Sylvia reminded herself. ‘It’s been a year, but she’s still the most recent transfer.’ Sometimes, she missed her old co-workers at her previous agency (which was always followed by the realization that that was simply nostalgia talking). “And Neal assumed I’d bring one,” Wilma continued. “So we’re both empty-handed.”

  Sylvia didn’t even try to hide her deep exhale. “I’ll be there in ten, but you do know that whatever’s going on will likely have passed by then, correct?” Because a simple inactive imprint or small overp in a public pce like a park typically wasn’t worth the battery. Still, if the active event was rge (not airship-rge) or viote enough, she could see some reason in using a separator as added protection. (Which was why Wilma should have had a device with her to begin with!)

  “That’s the thing,” the other agent replied, a gust of wind temporarily adding some extra background noise to the call. “We’ve been watching it for, like, five minutes now?” A muffled voice – probably the other intern. “Seven minutes. And, uh, if you could bring a cat carrier or something, too, just in case, that’d be great. Thanks!”

  Wilma hung up, leaving Sylvia staring at her phone’s lock screen. The image of a sunset over waves didn’t give her any answers. “A cat carrier?” Maybe she did miss those fools she used to work with after all. At least they had provided expnations.

  “Who's got a cat?” Cecelia asked, making the agent jump. Sheesh, she hadn’t heard the kid come over. Cecelia looked more put together than she had earlier, though her clothes were wrinkled. Then again, so were Sylvia’s.

  “Wilma, apparently.” Sighing again, Sylvia brushed her hair out of her face. ‘Where would I even find a cat carrier around here?’ She certainly wasn’t going to buy one for whatever was going on. “We’re heading to Reed Park.” Because Miss Echo would surely insist on Sylvia bringing the kid, both for experience and to keep an eye on her. “You go grab a dimension separator – just one, don’t try anything else – and I’ll track down a box or something.” The closet stuff with cleaning supplies was probably her best bet, if not… ‘Maybe an empty trash can?’

  “Wait…” the kid said slowly, drawing the word out. “She found… a ghost cat?” Cecelia’s face scrunched up and, unfortunately, Sylvia would bet that she had a matching expression. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s cool but… how would you even tell if the cat is an overp event?”

  ‘No one thought there could be an overp airship either.’ Shoot, she hadn’t even asked if it was pulling or overp. “It’s probably a pulling, and Wilma wants to bring the cat back to keep an eye on it or have it checked out,” Sylvia deduced. “We’ll find out more when we get there. You have two minutes to grab the separator and get in the car, or I’m leaving without you.”

  Cecelia gaped at her. “But–! You’d still need the separator?!”

  “Don’t test me.”

  ~

  It wasn’t a cat.

  “…What’s the problem here, again?” Sylvia asked after some deep breath. The morning was already shaping up to be warmer than it should before temperatures would suddenly and dramatically drop at night. Despite the time of year, most of the half-dead trees scattered around the park still held onto their leave. “Because all I see is a fat pigeon in a park.” A fat pigeon the other intern was constantly feeding dried peas to so that it didn’t fly away. (‘Did he have those in his pockets or did he run to a store and buy them?’) And Cecelia was feeding the other fat pigeons so the first bird wasn’t bothered.

  “A local bird watcher reported it and it got pushed to us,” Wilma “expined.” She had her red hair tied up and was wearing a yellow, thin-looking sports jacket that made a rustling sound against the wind. “That.” She pointed at the bird, her silver ring catching the light. “Is, apparently, a Passenger Pigeon. They called the police thinking it was a prank – no, I don’t know why that was their first reaction either. But, from what I can tell from a quick internet search, they were right about the bird.”

  Sylvia looked at the animal again. Maybe it was a bit bigger than the others and the tail was slightly longer. The feathers were more brown than gray, with a bck beak. She’d even admit that the red eyes and feet were not something she’d seen before on a city pigeon (not that she paid much attention to the flying rats in the first pce). Still, there was nothing that justified the taped-off barrier around them. ‘It’s a good thing the park’s not busy.’ “And?” she asked.

  “It’s a passenger pigeon. Don’t you know about Martha?”

  “Biology was not my best subject,” Sylvia admitted, looking down at the cardboard box she’d found in the break room, using a dull knife to stab a few air holes into it. “How do you think the interns are going to catch a rare pigeon in a box without getting pecked to death?”

  Wilma gave her a ft look. “It’s not just ‘a rare pigeon.’ That species does not exist anymore. Not in the wild or in zoos. At least, not here.” The stress on the st word made it clear what type of ‘here’ Sylvia’s fellow agent meant. “And it’s not like there’s capture nets stored at HQ.”

  “There aren’t cat carriers, either.”

  A cheer from the other intern – when Sylvia looked over, she found the boy had managed to grab the bird. Cecelia was cooing at it, trying to offer the animal more peas by hand. “I guess we don’t need animal services.” “Are you kidding?” Wilma incredulously asked. “We let them know there’s a quote-unquote ‘ghost’ passenger pigeon in the park, and even PR won’t be able to do anything.”

  Fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, Sylvia groaned. “Let’s just use the separator and send it... back….”

  “Sylvia?”

  Sheesh, her brain was too slow today. “Wilma, he’s holding the pigeon.”

  “Yes?”

  “The ‘quote-unquote ‘ghost’ pigeon.”

  A minute of silence. “Better than being smooshed by a ghost air shi– Holy shit. The bird was eating. Food! From here! That’s-!” From behind Wilma’s curved sungsses, wide eyes locked onto Sylvia. “Does this even count as an overp anymore?!”

  Sylvia had no idea and that was extremely frustrating. She took the dimensional separator out of her purse. “It still needs to go back. Before the kid realizes he’s holding a ‘ghost.’” Wilma made a disappointed sound (really, the other agent should know better), but Sylvia was already walking towards the interns. “Put the bird back on the ground,” she told them. “But keep your hands above it so it doesn’t fly away.”

  The boy was pouting, almost hugging the pigeon to his chest. (Said pigeon was either too full of dried peas to fly away or had no self-preservation instincts.) “But–“

  “No,” Sylvia said, turning on the separator. “It might not smoosh people, but we can’t leave it here.”

  “She has a point.” Cecelia put a comforting hand on the other intern’s shoulder, like he was having to give up a pet and not a wild bird. “It might have diseases that our birds don’t.” Her face scrunched up as the boy rushed to set the animal down. “We should really wash our hands.”

  Rolling her eyes, Sylvia reached into her bag and tossed a small bottle of hand sanitizer to the girl. “Wash up better when we get back to the agency,” she told them. Then she set the separator down near the pigeon and took a few steps back. If the bird tried to fly away, she didn’t want it flying into her.

  The dumb pigeon pecked at the device.

  …

  …

  …

  “Is the battery dead?” the boy asked.

  “No,” Cecelia answered. “I made sure to grab a fully charged one.”

  …

  …

  …

  The pigeon found a stray pea and swallowed it down.

  The dimensional separator shut off, as if it had done its job.

  …

  The pigeon blinked.

  …

  Wilma’s tennis shoes squeaked over the pavement as she joined them. “Looks like we do need the box after all.”

  ~

  Sylvia had tunned out the interns in the backseat – the box holding the ‘ghost’ pigeon between them – as soon as she started the drive back. Wilma, in the passenger seat, had popped in her ear buds, thankfully not singing along to whatever she was listening to. (She and the other intern had walked to the park.) The traffic had increased now that the morning commute was close to full swing, but at least everything was moving.

  And then a pair of surprised shouts startled Sylvia badly enough that she almost hit the car in front of her.

  Smming on her brake, the agent gred over her shoulder. “What the he-?!”

  “Martha’s gone!” the boy excimed, tilting the now-opened box so Sylvia could see inside. “We stopped hearing her moving around, so we took a really quick peek and–!”

  ‘Interns,’ Sylvia mentally cursed. ‘No, twenty-something-year-old teenagers.’ “You named the bird?”

  Cecelia blushed. “T-That’s not the point! Mar– It just vanished!”

  “Yup!” Wilma’s shout out the now-rolled-down window had Sylvia changing the target of her gre. “Just go around!” the redheaded woman continued, waving her hand out the window. Cars honked as they did so, and the agent caught a few raised fingers. “Sylvia!” Wilma hissed. “We can’t just sit here and block traffic!”

  Grinding her teeth together, the older woman took her foot off the break. “No. More. Screaming,” she gritted out, scowling at the interns via her rear-view mirror. “It was probably a deyed effect of the separator.” And then, as she eased back into traffic: “And don’t name any more ghosts.”

  ~

  “This isn’t the way to the agency,” Wilma said after a righthand turn.

  “That’s because I,” Sylvia hissed, nails digging into the steering wheel. “Am getting some actual food and coffee before dealing with any more of this shit.”

  The boy raised his hand. “Can we order stuff too?” Cecelia nodded, like she hadn’t stuffed herself full of doughnuts an hour or two ago.

  Reaching the drive-through, Sylvia barely resisted the urge to let her head drop onto the wheel and having the horn scream out her frustration. “For the love of–! Fine! But nothing with lots of sugar!”