Time. Time gets us all, eventually.
"Here," I say, holding my canteen out as Delaney collapses to the deck, dangling her limbs through the railing while leaning against the rest for support.
"I'm cold," she says, forehead pressed against a metal crossbar. Still, she takes the canteen. Manages a small sip before coughing most of it right back out.
I clean the rim with a sanitizing wipe, then take a sip of my own.
"Yeah, I know." I'd put another coat on her, but it wouldn't do any good. That constant chill that's harried her all summer is too deep now. Burrowed into her flesh like termites at an old house, brittling her from the inside out. "Won't be long, though. Sunset's almost here."
We sit a bit in silence, the sun slowly sinking in a red-gold haze. It's pretty, almost, the way it sets the water to sparkling just before the end. That last bit of glitter before everything is swallowed up by the dark. Most of downtown Austin is hidden behind us by the bank's rise and the old LINE hotel, but with each hard wind shuddering through the abandoned streets, the buildings groan in protest. It's the only sound, other than the hungry churn of the river at our feet.
"There used to be people waiting here," Delaney says. "Here and up on the bridge. Hundreds of them, back when I was a little girl." The words set her to coughing again, bits of blood speckling the railing.
I reach for the canteen. "More water?"
She shakes her head and rests it back against the metal. Her breath is wet, her eyes bloodshot.
When she finally speaks again, her voice is quiet. "You'll come back next year, won't you? Watch the bats for me?"
I bite back my first few responses.
Nobody cares about the bats anymore.
Or...
What's the point of watching the bats if it's not with you?
Or...
The walk's too long, my feet hurt, my back hurts, my everything hurts...
Or. Or. Or. There's half a dozen things I could say--and one thing I can't--but the only thing that matters is what she wants to hear.
"Sure. I'll come back next year. And the year after. And every other year, so long as there are still bats to see."
And there will be bats. Unlike people, the bats are doing just fine.
"Good," she says. "I've always liked--"
She jerks as another coughing fit seizes up her insides and sends her clutching at the railing while her body bucks against itself. I hover over, wanting to help but knowing there is nothing left to do now but watch. Watch as the Red Death chews through her and spits out whatever's left.
By the time the fit passes, she's paler than before, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
"I'm glad you're immune," she wheezes, her breath still not quite caught up. Her teeth are flecked in red. Her lips, also.
And there's something I really need to say, something I need to tell her...but I'm saved from having to say it by the emergence of the bats.
Just a few of them at first, skittering free of the bridge's underbelly where they've nested the long summer through. Then a stream of them. Then two streams, then three. Then more. Long spirals of bats rising into the skyscape, like handfuls of black confetti thrown against the coming night. And with their rising, a vast chirruping noise echoing across the river and setting my bones to ache.
Under cover of that noise, and of Delaney's wonder as she stares raptly at all those bats bursting forth into the fading light, I pull out my handkerchief and give a quiet cough. Then, just as quietly, I tuck the handkerchief back away. Unchecked, because I already know what I'll see.
"Like confetti," I say, swallowing hard as the bats wheel and sweep joyously overhead and Delaney looks on enraptured, fingers curled around the railing as though it's the only thing keeping her from flying off with them.
And together, the night unfolding inexorably around us, we watch the bats one last time.
The End
Like Black Confetti (c) Copyright 2026 by Michelle Muenzler
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