Fungible Certitudes

Iowa Hill: Episode Twenty-Two

Kailani knew Austin would be pacing by now, back in the dark shell of their Nob Hill apartment, radio silent and storm-eyed, muttering to himself about timing, risk, and loyalty. She loved him for that. Loved his worry like a blanket made from caution and care. But love alone didn’t grow potatoes. Or corn. Or anything clean anymore. That was why she was here.

A bloom of lightning scarred the morning sky above the Market Street Bayou Shore, etching electric veins over the flood-wilted skyscrapers. The storm had passed, but the air still buzzed with aftershock. Tides had taken most of SoMa, but Market still squatted in the shallows like a memory that refused to die.

Charmaine’s bar was half bar, half church, half black-market exchange—which made perfect sense in a city where fractions no longer added up right. The roof sagged like a shrug. The sign read “The Midway Psalm” in broken neon, flickering like a tired prophecy.

Charmaine met her at the door, all gold hoops and wary eyes, a double-barrel under one arm and a jug of fermented cactus cider in the other.

“You sure you wanna do this, baby boat?” she asked, eyes drifting down to Kailani’s swollen belly.

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything,” Kailani said, brushing past her into the dim sanctuary of wood smoke, citrus peels, and old jazz on loop.

Charmaine grunted. “Well, hell. I had three kids and still wouldn’t have gone raiding a federal ghost building at eight months cooked. You got that look, though. Like a wolf dressed as a woman.”

“Pregnancy does something,” Kailani said, tying her braid tighter. “Strips the lie off everything. Makes you see exactly what matters. What’s worth risking.”

Charmaine raised a brow. “You carrying a prophet or a bomb?”

Kailani smiled, teeth bare. “Both.”