Featured in Farrago Magazine Edition Four 2026 as part of the Beth and the Bear column
Design by Marc Lebon
Beth sat in her bedroom, illuminated by the dim blue glow of her laptop screen, passively consuming a YouTube documentary about Yellowstone. Her lungs rattled with every inhale, and she could feel herself composting in the heap of snotty tissues that was her latest sleeping arrangement. She had been meaning to go get her flu shot for about eight years. Now she was filled to the brim with mucus. Her skin was tacky with a greyish hue, and she hadn’t felt a normal body temperature in 30 hours. Beth was decidedly sick. She reached for the tissue box to her left and thought about Old Faithful as she blew her nose.
She slept restlessly while her videos played to the stale air. She dreamt that she was her father, lying in bed two doors to the left. It had been a long time since Beth had experienced the precise squish of her parents’ mattress, but the sensation was vivid now. She could feel the dressing gown he always wore pressed against her skin, his sweat as her own, and his pain pulsing down her spine.
He had a fall at work when Beth was a teenager. Came off a ladder and broke his back. He relearnt to walk but never got his mind back. He never returned to work. He reeked, ate very little and aimlessly wandered the house some. But mostly he just slept.
Beth sat up sharply as she woke, gasping through her parched lips. Yellowstone has been proceeded by a woman solemnly telling the story of her childhood in a cult. Beth looked past her to check the time and realised she was expected at work in 15 minutes.
Her heart thumped; she could feel it in the tip of her nose. Hey Adam, she typed, I am feeling really crummy, so I will not be able to make it to my shift today. I am very sorry for any inconvenience.
The last text she had sent him was three years ago. It was an image of her grandmother’s death certificate that he had requested as evidence the last time she called, or rather, texted-off work.
She closed her laptop screen and drifted off again. Her mother’s face appeared above her, round and glowing like the moon. Get up, she ordered. Get up—get up—get up. Beth opened her eyes and watched her mother slip out of her room. She stumbled up and out into the hallway, stopping briefly in the doorway to stabilise her frail body. Her kitchen came into view: a fluorescent rectangle, within which Beth could just make out the figure of a man. He spoke with a familiar, grating timbre. She wondered if her fever had brought on hallucinations, because it seemed like Adam was in her kitchen.
She thought of her father and grimaced at the thought of the kitchen light leaking under his door, of him hearing Adam, or feeling in the walls the unfamiliar vibrations of his gait. Before she could go check on him, she heard his voice.
She couldn’t see her father from this angle, but he spoke deep and strong. It was a long-lost tone that hitherto lived only in Beth’s childhood memories.
She sat at the top of a slide. Yellow, chipped. The other children gathered impatiently behind her, but she wouldn’t budge. It was terrifying. Come on Bethyboo!—I believe in you!—Brave Bethyboo!—Be a big girl Bethyboo!
Beth found herself standing in her kitchen before Adam with no memory of walking the hallway there. He seemed taller now that he was in her home.
She was shoved and slid forward. Her shrieking matched the horrible pitch created by her bare thighs scraping along the plastic-coated metal. When her Mary Janes reunited with tanbark her father was waiting at the bottom to pick her up—I am so proud of you Bethyboo!
Her father was there in the kitchen. She wanted to speak to him, but Adam spoke first. I thought I would come check up on you—Why? Why come here?—Are you sick?—I have the flu, Adam—
She willed herself to cough, hoping to splutter all over him as proof, but she found that her lungs were entirely clear. The pressure in her sinuses had dissipated and her body temperature was steady and normal. Beth looked to a dark window and saw herself reflected. She realised she was beautiful: bright-eyed, straight-backed, every curl was in place. You lied to me Beth—Adam towered over her.
No, I was sick just now—Stop lying—I’m not—You left us understaffed—I’m sick— That’s not team player behaviour—No I am—I can see you aren’t sick—I am a team player—
Go put your shoes on, her father said, still slightly out of Beth’s view. Adam will take you away, her mother said.
So she went back to her room, cursing the inexplicable bounce in her step. She pulled on her work shoes, which were disgustingly sticky, and tied her hair up. As she moved back towards the kitchen she grew weary again. Her vision blurred and darkened at the edges until only a small pinprick of light guided her forward. When she reached the kitchen, it was empty.