Lingua Franca – Amelia Fisher
I knew the children had no names, though I didn’t understand it. Far had tried to explain it to me, but this was one barrier our strides in communication could not quite breach. She would always be of the city, and I an interloper. In the park, sitting on either side of the silent boy, you could have told that just from looking at us: Far in her machine-tailored suit jacket, me in my worn jeans and patchy self-applied buzz cut. Only one of us fully human, or so I’d been taught.