by Kurt Kirchmeier

The fabric stretched and swelled, puffing up as though filling with air. A square of denim slid sideways to merge with cotton; strips of silk and gossamer intertwined. Blue and white and green and yellow; soon all the swatches were connected, patched together like so much multicoloured skin. The creature drew a breath.

“Shh,” said Medina, a finger pressed to her lips.

The textile dragon looked up at her, cocked its head at a curious angle.

“Lucio’s here,” Medina explained. Lucio was Medina’s older brother. He sometimes came to stay the weekends as part of the divorce settlement, but he was never happy about it, which, perhaps, was the reason for him acting so mean all the time now. Or maybe not. Truth was, Medina didn’t really know what to make of her brother anymore. They had always gotten along before.

The dragon--Silkfire, Medina had named him--shot a look at the closed door, and then over at the bedroom window, obviously contemplating escape. Medina couldn’t really blame the poor thing, not after what had happened to her patchwork turtle.

“Don’t worry,” said Medina, “the door’s locked.”

The dragon breathed a little easier, but remained wary, and continued stealing glances at the door as though afraid that Lucio might be able to pick the lock to get in, which maybe he could. Medina hoped not.

Lucio had taken her turtle out to the back alley and burned it with a silver Zippo lighter that he wasn’t even allowed to have. Medina’s mom took the lighter away afterwards, but she didn’t realize the charred fabric was a pet and not just a pile of old rags. Medina’s mom couldn’t see the animals; Medina supposed only kids could.

“You’re just jealous!” Medina had yelled at her brother after finding the turtle ashes. Then she cried, which probably should have made Lucio laugh--it usually did--but for some reason he didn’t laugh at all. He just stood there looking sad, like he hadn’t actually wanted to burn the turtle. Like he had no choice. Medina wondered about that afterwards.

She wondered also if her magic might go away when she got a little older. Maybe she’d be sitting on the bus, Silkfire in her lap, and all of sudden the dragon would deflate right there in front of her, all the wind expelled from his denim lungs. And then she’d examine those hunks of fabric and think to herself: What are these for? Why are they on my lap? But she wouldn’t remember. Not ever.

Medina shuddered at the thought, then started at a knock on her door.

“Yeah?” she said. Silkfire crept backwards and silently hid himself beneath the bed covers.

“Whatcha doin’ in there?” said Lucio.

“None of your business,” said Medina, and swallowed hard.

“I’m not gonna do nothin’,” Lucio went on. “You don’t have to worry.” He jiggled the door handle.

“It’s locked,” said Medina.

“I could pick it, you know,” said Lucio.

“You do and I’ll scream. Then you’ll be grounded for the whole weekend.”

“So? There’s nothin’ to do anyway. What does it matter if I’m grounded?” He jiggled the handle again and sighed. “C’mon, Med, just open the door. Let me in. Maybe we can play a game or something. I’m bored out of my mind here.”

“Is that why you set fire to Softshell?” she asked. “’Cause you were bored?”

For a moment Lucio said nothing. “Enough about that already. Can’t we just drop it?” His voice was even, but Medina could tell he was struggling to keep it that way. But so what if he didn’t want to talk about it? If they didn’t, then the whole thing might just as well have never happened.

“How would you like it if someone set you on fire?” Medina went on. She was walking on thin ice now, goading him like this, but thinking about poor Softshell made her so angry that she just didn’t care anymore, and if Lucio picked the lock to get at her, well, he’d find her ready and waiting with a lamp to smash over his head!

Lucio kicked the bottom of the door, but it wasn’t a real kick, just a soft thump of frustration. “Stupid turtle,” he said. “It didn’t even look like one. I told you I was sorry.” And then he left. Just like that.

“What’s wrong with him?” Medina asked her mom later on. They were sitting at the supper table, just the two of them. Three counting Silkfire. Lucio had refused to come down from his room to eat. He’d been yelling and storming up and down the stairs for much of the day, but he never really seemed sure of what he was about, like he wanted to be mad but couldn’t decide who to be mad at exactly.

Medina’s mom shook her head. She looked tired. “He’s just having a hard time adjusting,” she said, then narrowed her eyes at Medina’s moving hand. Medina was petting her dragon, but of course it wouldn’t appear that way to her mom. “Must you do that at the table?”

“I couldn’t leave him all alone upstairs,” said Medina. “Lucio could have got hold of him.”

Her mom shook her head again. “What’s with you two?” she said, and set down her silverware. “I know the divorce has been tough on you guys, but bringing dirty rags to the supper table and setting fire to things certainly isn’t going to make anything easier.”

Medina scowled. “He’s not dirty.”

Her mom took a breath and held it inside for a moment. “Medina, Silkfire isn’t--”

But Medina already had this conversation and wasn’t about to go over it a second time. She got up from her chair to leave, but not before purposely knocking over her milk glass, the contents of which spilled right across the whole length of the table and into her mom’s lap.

“Medina Abegail Marcos!” she yelled, her eyes wide and a little surprised. “Get to your room!”

Medina shrugged; that’s where she was going anyway.

Save for the occasional bathroom break, Medina stayed in her bedroom for the rest of the night. Mostly she just played with Silkfire, periodically coaxing the little dragon to let fire the torrents of shiny red silk that had earned the fabric wonder its name; but then, every once in a while, she’d press her ear to the wall and listen for Lucio in the adjoining room, but though she knew he was in there, he didn’t make a peep. At least, not at first he didn’t.