Turn 164 of 228

Check on Diane's proress and whether er weight has continued climbing. Also check yours. Then talk to the triplets about turning one and what they've noticed about themselves. Host a birthday party for the twins next week. Eat, drink and smoke like you never have before after the triplets fall asleep.

Lena finds Diane in the kitchen area, standing at the second fridge with the door open, eating cold sweet potato with her fingers. The nine-foot-six frame. The beard. The body hair. The belly that hangs past her knees. The 950 pounds that was true a month ago — but the way she fills the kitchen now, the way the bare feet press wider into the concrete, the way the belly rests heavier against her thighs, something has shifted.

"How much?" Lena says.

Diane chews. Swallows. The beard. The face that stopped being managed months ago.

"I haven't stepped on the scale since last month," Diane says. "I can feel it, though. The belly is heavier. The arms are thicker. My feet hurt — not the muscles, the bones again. The arches. Like they want to keep spreading. The skeletal growth stopped at nine-six but the weight didn't and I can feel it in every joint. I'm heavier than 950. I know I'm heavier than 950."

"Step on," Lena says.

They walk to the industrial scale together. The warehouse floor shakes with their combined weight — 1,450 and whatever Diane is now. Diane steps onto the steel platform. The readout climbs. 940. 950. 960. 970. The numbers slow. 975. 980. The readout settles.

Diane steps off. Turns. The nine-six frame. The 980 pounds. Thirty pounds in a month — not as fast as Lena's impossible 400, but faster than the fifteen-a-month she was gaining before the skeletal growth. The trajectory is steepening.

"It's accelerating," Diane says. Not a question. The voice is low, the stretched vocal cords.

"The bones stopped growing but the mass is filling in around the new frame. The frame is bigger and the frame needs to be filled. Like you said. The wish is filling it."

Lena steps onto the scale next. The readout strains — the industrial unit was rated for 2,000 pounds and Marcus reinforced it last month after Lena's last weighing. The numbers climb. 1,400. 1,450. 1,460. 1,470. 1,480. 1,490. The readout settles at 1,498.

"Forty-eight pounds," Lena says. "Since the celebration. Slower than the four hundred but still — still climbing. Still going."

"The wish isn't done," Diane says.

"The wish isn't done," Lena says.

They stand together. Twelve feet and nine-six. 1,498 and 980. Two bodies that don't fit in buildings. The warehouse holds them.

The triplets are on the warehouse floor. June is hanging upside down from a shelving bracket at ten feet, the yellow nails hooked over the steel, the hair falling. Iris is cross-legged on the platform with the eighth notebook open. Mae is eating from a bag of chips that is almost as big as her torso. Lena lowers herself to the concrete — the twelve-foot body folding down, the belly spreading, the yellow nails resting on the cold floor.

"You're one," Lena says.

June drops from the bracket. Lands. Looks at Lena.

"I know," June says. "I've been counting. Iris taught me. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days. I counted because I wanted to know how long I've been here and the answer is one year and one year isn't very long but I've already climbed every wall in this building and the building isn't big enough anymore."

She says this while shifting her weight from foot to foot. The explorer. The body that cannot be still.

"What have you noticed about yourself?" Lena says.

"I'm faster," June says. "Last month I ran the bay in three seconds. Yesterday I ran it in two and a half. I timed it on Da's phone. I'm getting faster. Not just taller — faster. Like my body is figuring out how to move better. The ceiling crack I told Da about — I went up there again yesterday and it's wider. I measured it with my hand. It's wider and I think the building is settling because of — because of us. Because of how heavy we are. I told Da and he said he'd check the structural load calculations. He's right. He should."

Iris looks up from the notebook. The eyes that see everything.

"I've filled seven books," Iris says. "The eighth is almost done. I've tracked Mama's weight for six months — 1,010, 1,450, 1,498. The rate is decelerating from the 400-pound month but the absolute gain is still increasing. I've tracked Mae's weight — twenty-nine pounds at birth, forty-six at six months, one hundred and eight now. The curve is exponential. I plotted it. The curve doesn't flatten."

She turns the notebook so Lena can see. The graph is hand-drawn, the axes labeled in Iris's notation system. The line goes up. The line goes up and it doesn't curve back.

"I've also tracked my own observations," Iris says. "I write more now. Faster. The pen moves faster. Last month I wrote fourteen pages in a day. Yesterday I wrote twenty-two. My hands are faster. My thinking is faster. I notice things I didn't notice before — the way Carl's weight shifts when he cooks, the way Da's breathing changes when he's designing, the way Mama's hum changes when the triplets are near. I can hear the hum. I've always heard it. I didn't know it had a name until Da said it."

Mae sets down the chip bag. The hands are orange with dust. The belly is round and taut under the little body. She looks at Lena with the expression of someone who has been waiting to speak.

"I'm the biggest," Mae says. "I'm a hundred and eight pounds. June is ninety-two. Iris is eighty-four. I'm the biggest and I'm still growing. I can feel it. I can feel it in my belly and in my legs and in my arms. Everything is getting bigger. I eat and I grow and I eat more and I grow more. Mama, I ate 4,200 calories yesterday and Iris charted it and the number is going up every day. I'm going to be bigger than you. I told you that before. I'm telling you again. I'm not stopping."

She pats her belly with both orange hands. The gesture — Lena's gesture. The hands on the belly. The comfort.

The birthday party is Saturday. Marcus moves the workstation against the wall. Carl clears the kitchen area. Billy Jo brings a sheet cake — full sheet, the icing white, the letters reading JUNE IRIS MAE 1 in blue. Carl brings liquor — three bottles of whiskey, two bottles of vodka, a case of beer. Marcus brings weed — eight ounces from the dispensary, pre-rolled joints, two pipes. Diane brings food — six bags of chips, four containers of mac and cheese, three boxes of donuts, two gallons of orange juice. The warehouse floor is covered.

The triplets are awake until seven. June runs the bay — sprints, back and forth, the bare feet slapping concrete, the yellow nails clicking, the voice narrating every pass. *I'm running the bay and the floor is cold and the cake is ready and I want to eat it now.* Iris sits on the platform and writes about the party — *JUNE IS RUNNING. MAE IS EATING CHIPS. THE CAKE SAYS OUR NAMES.* Mae eats chips. Mae eats donuts. Mae eats mac and cheese. Mae eats until Carl cuts the cake and then Mae eats cake with both hands, the blue icing on her face, the belly full and round.

The triplets fall asleep at seven. June goes first — the body that never stops finally surrendering, the bare feet twitching, the mouth open. Iris falls asleep with the notebook on her chest, the pen still in her hand. Mae falls asleep with her hand on her belly, the orange dust on her fingers, the mouth still working.

Lena looks at Marcus. Marcus looks at Lena. Diane looks at Carl. Carl looks at Diane.

They don't wait.

The whiskey opens first. Marcus pours four glasses — actual glasses, not bottles, because Carl brought glasses, because Carl always brings glasses. Lena's glass is the size of a soup bowl. Diane's is the same. Marcus and Carl drink from standard pint glasses. The first pour is three fingers. The second pour is five. The third pour fills the glass. Lena drinks the first glass in four swallows. The burn is warm and familiar and the warmth spreads through the 1,498 pounds and the hum answers it — a low vibration, a purr, the body saying yes.

The joints come out at seven-thirty. Marcus lights the first one — the flame, the inhale, the hold, the exhale that fills the warehouse bay with sweet gray smoke. He passes it to Lena. Lena's lips close around it. The inhale is deep — the lungs that are bigger now, the lungs that fill a twelve-foot chest, the lungs that hold more smoke than they used to. She holds it. The hold is long. The exhale is slow. The warehouse blurs. The edges soften. The hum deepens.

Carl brings food to the floor. Bags of chips torn open. Containers of mac and cheese, cold, eaten with fingers. Donuts — the triplets' birthday donuts, the ones with the sprinkles, the ones that were supposed to be for morning. They eat them now. The sprinkles fall on the concrete. The sugar is on their fingers. The whiskey and the weed and the sugar mix into something warm and slow and perfect.

Diane lies on the warehouse floor. The 980 pounds spread across the concrete. The beard. The body hair. The belly rising. She drinks vodka from the bottle — not the glass, the bottle, the neck in her mouth, the throat working. She passes it to Carl. Carl drinks. He passes it back. They pass it back and forth until the bottle is empty and Carl opens the second.

"I haven't been this drunk since college," Carl says.

"You went to college?" Diane says.

"I went to college."

"I didn't know that."

"You never asked."

Diane laughs. The laugh that started in the movie theater and hasn't stopped. The laugh that fills the warehouse bay. The 980 pounds shaking on the concrete.

Lena is on her back. The 1,498 pounds. The belly rising like a hill. Marcus is beside her — 760 pounds, the body that grew because he loved her, the body that found its own want. His hand rests on her belly. Her hand rests on his. The yellow nails interlace. The warehouse is warm and smoky and the whiskey is in the blood and the weed is in the brain and the food is in the stomach and the triplets are sleeping and the hum is low and deep and constant.

"More," Lena says. Not to anyone. To the hum. To the wish. To the body that is comfortable and the body that is more.

Marcus rolls another joint. Diane opens the third bottle. Carl brings the remaining cake — half a sheet, the icing smeared, the letters broken. They eat it on the floor. They eat it with their hands. The icing is on their faces and the whiskey is in their cups and the smoke is in the air and the night is long.

The hum holds them. The warehouse holds them. The body is comfortable. The body is more. The body is not done.