100 Yellow Doors

february 20th, 1836, 8:57 a.m.

Iman stayed where she was, swaying on the ground as she tried to decide whether or not she was going to throw up. She was lightheaded, her vision edged in black. There was white sun in her eyes and against her skin—not hot, she realized, but just warm enough. Dust in her mouth. A new scrape on her knee. Somewhere close, a bell swinging back and forth, its toll echoing in her ears.

Thunder cracked; Iman realized with a start that it was not thunder at all, but horse hooves. Fear clamoring inside of her, she rolled into the nearest bush, peeking out into the day. A whirl of dust rose into the air as a carriage rolled by, pulled along by two shining black steeds. Iman could see no more than the silhouettes of two men inside of the dark carriage. Was one of them Jacinto? Was one of them—Julien?

She had to get closer. Just a little bit closer.

Iman edged nearer to the main road—paved, but covered in a thin film of sand and rusty soil—until she could see the carriage's path. At the end of the road was a small church, white brick, brown doors, a wooden cross like a young skyscraper against the azure sky. La iglesia católica de la gente, read the crumbling wood sign in front of it. Iman wracked her brain, trying to remember the Spanish words Beck (got a 5 on the AP Spanish exam in high school, spent two summers in Spain, usually made fast friends with the immigrants working as maids or doormen) had grilled her on before she left. Church...of the people, maybe?

She was beginning to wish she really could bring Beck with her. With only a week's worth of Duolingo under her belt, she was clueless.

Iman struggled to a crouch—high enough to move faster, low enough to keep from being seen—and followed the line of shrubbery to the end of the path. She kept her pace fast, always glancing over her shoulder at the tree line behind her, in case any surprise guests arrived. As the horses pulled to a stop in front of the church, Iman dropped low again, watching from her hiding spot.

Was it happening in front of her? The answers she and Julien had been searching for—were they playing out right now, as she watched? It was almost too surreal.

Two pairs of polished black boots stepped down from the stopped carriage. Iman looked up; the two men were soldiers, she thought, one lean, the other heavy set, both clothed in white trousers and red and green, gold-buttoned tailcoats. There was a white sash across their chests, a gold belt around their waists. One had a gleaming sword hitched at his belt, and the other held a musket, bayonet pointed high towards the sky.

Iman searched their faces. She wasn't sure why she felt a pang of relief when neither one of them were Jules.

A door squeaked open, and another man eased down the church's stoop out to greet them. His shoulders were broad, held back in such a way that suggested height even though the two military men swamped him. His stark black hair was cut short, his fingers beringed with cold. At his high collar was a clean, white clasp: a priest.

Behind him, in the church's door frame, Iman could just make out the stirring figures of what looked like his wife and children. There was a strange air of unease, as if, whatever these men had come for, it was nothing pleasant.

One of the infantry held out a small slip of parchment. Iman noticed the priest's hands were shaking as he took it.

A moment later, the priest turned. He called out one name, and though it was pronounced in Spanish, with the J as an H, it sent a cold feeling through Iman's stomach anyway: "Julien!"

Only the cold feeling was not just a cold feeling—it was airy, too, almost as if her time was running out.

"No," Iman whispered to herself. She couldn't leave now. She could hear his footsteps; he was coming down stairs, she thought—if she could only see him—

But she couldn't, because the world spiraled again in a cloud of black and when it was clear again, she was staring at a yellow door.

She had never been so glad and so dismayed to see that door. Panting, a lick of sweat at her temple and her heart hammering in her chest—she kept replaying the moment that man had called his name, how urgent it had sounded, like everything as these people knew it was changing—she stammered to the door and rung the doorbell. Once, twice, three times. Julien. I need to see you, Julien—

"Christ! Once would have been enough—oh. Iman?"

Before she much knew what she was doing, she collapsed into his arms. Her face was wet; she couldn't remember when she'd started crying. Why was she crying? She didn't know if it was terror or relief or sheer disappointment, but she had the crushing feeling that it was a tangle of all three. "I went back, and—and I thought I was going to see you, but then it didn't work, Jules, it never works, and I'm so, so sorry—"

"Wait wait wait, Immy, slow down a second," he said, backing her up, his hands on her shoulders. Sniffling, Iman looked up into Julien's bewildered face, his dark hair swept under a ball cap, eyes black with confusion. "Listen. I adore you, you're great, but I have no idea what the hell you're saying right now."

Iman slumped forward, wiping her tears on his shirt.

"Okay. Yeah, sure. That's fine; just do that."

She staggered backwards again, and only then did she realize it was dark: the daytime gone, replaced by a glaring moon and only a light sprinkle of stars. The air was cool, the sort of by-the-sea cool; if she tried, she could smell saltwater and sand. She didn't know what year it was, and she wasn't sure she cared. All she felt was...helpless?

Yes, she thought. That was the strange, empty feeling growing in her chest. Helplessness. Failure.

"Iman," said Julien, peering closely at her. He reached to wipe her cheek, but Iman shied away. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"I—" But this Julien didn't know. This Julien, whenever, whoever he was, did not know where she had gone or what she as trying to do. She sputtered, trying to find an answer, and settled on: "Nevermind. It's nothing."

Julien rolled his eyes. "It's nothing? Right. You come over here, hugging me, crying, and then tell me it's nothing? Come on. I may be stupid, but I'm not that stupid, Immy."

The feeling was back; she would be gone soon. Groaning, Iman crouched low to the ground. She was tired. So tired. She just wanted to go home.

"Iman?"

She looked up at him. "I'm sorry. Forget I was here."

"You know I can't do that."

"Try," she said, and that was the last thing she said to him that night.