Bounce of the Boundless

The first thing you notice about the Land of Boobs isn't the bouncing. It's the paperwork.

I'm standing in the Ministry of Modesty (a name so ironic it circles back to sincerity), waiting for my forgery license to be stamped. The clerk behind the counter has breasts the size of prize-winning pumpkins, and she's trying to read my application while they sway like twin pendulums. Every time she leans forward to squint at my credentials, they knock against the desk. Thud. Thud. Thud.

"Ylva Skarsgard," she says, not looking up. "Occupation: tattoo artist and document specialist."

"That's me."

"Document specialist." She finally meets my eyes. Hers are the color of weak tea, and they've got that bureaucratic flatness that makes you want to confess to crimes you didn't commit. "That's a creative way to say forger."

I don't flinch. "I prefer 'artisan of alternative authentication.'"

She doesn't laugh. Nobody in the Ministry of Modesty laughs. They just jiggle and stamp things.

The thing about this place, and I mean the fundamental, inescapable thing, is that clothing is illegal. Not frowned upon. Not socially discouraged. Illegal. The Founding Mothers apparently believed that fabric was a tool of oppression, that covering the body was the first step toward covering the truth. So here we are, centuries later, a nation of women with backs that ache and chiropractors who've never had a day off.

I've lived here my whole life, and I still haven't gotten used to the way conversations work. You can't make eye contact during a serious discussion because there's always something bouncing in your peripheral vision. You can't cross your arms without accidentally squishing something. And don't get me started on running for the bus.

But I'm not here to philosophize. I'm here because my license expired last week, and without it, I can't legally forge the documents that keep my actual business running. The irony isn't lost on me. I forge papers for a living, but I need real papers to do it.

The clerk stamps my form with a satisfying thunk. "You're approved. Provisional status. Six months."

"Why provisional?"

"Because your last renewal was late. And because I don't like your tattoos."

She says it without malice, just a statement of fact. My tattoos cover most of my body, intricate designs that tell the story of every stupid decision I've ever made. A serpent coils around my left forearm, its scales made of tiny skulls. On my back, a phoenix rises from flames that spell out names of people I've lost. The one she's probably staring at is the dagger on my sternum, its blade pointing down toward my navel, dripping ink instead of blood.

"Noted," I say. "Can I go now?"

She waves me off, and I turn to leave. The door is heavy, reinforced with some kind of metal, and when I push it open, the afternoon sun hits me like a slap. The capital city of Bustopia (yes, that's really what it's called) spreads out before me, a sprawling mess of white stone buildings and open-air markets and women everywhere, bouncing.

I head toward the Undercroft, the part of the city where the cobblestones are uneven and the buildings lean into each other like drunks. My studio is there, tucked between a bakery that specializes in cream-filled pastries and a pawn shop that's definitely a front for something. I've never asked what.

The walk takes twenty minutes. I could take the tram, but I like the exercise. Plus, the tram is always crowded, and there's nothing quite like being pressed against a stranger's back while her chest compresses against your shoulder blades. Some people find it erotic. I find it exhausting.

Halfway there, someone calls my name.

"Ylva! Ylva Skarsgard!"

I turn. A woman is running toward me, which means everything is moving in ways that make it hard to focus on her face. She's short, with dark hair cut into a bob, and her breasts are modest by local standards, which means they're only the size of grapefruits. She's wearing nothing, obviously, but she's got a leather satchel slung across her body, and it bounces against her hip with every step.

She skids to a stop in front of me, breathing hard. "I need your help."

"Everybody needs my help. That's why I charge."

"It's about my sister. She's been arrested."

I cross my arms, which presses my own chest together in a way that's become second nature. "Arrested for what?"

"Forgery."

The word hangs between us. I don't react. I've learned not to react.

"That's unfortunate," I say. "But I'm not a lawyer."

"She didn't do it. She was framed. Someone planted the documents in her apartment, and now she's facing ten years in the Bounce House."

The Bounce House. Official name: the Rehabilitation Center for Wayward Women. Unofficial name: the place where they make you jump on trampolines for twelve hours a day until you confess to whatever they want you to confess to. The logic is that physical exhaustion leads to mental clarity. The reality is that it leads to torn ligaments and broken spirits.

"I can't help you," I say.

"Please. You're the only one who can."

"I'm a tattoo artist."

"You're a forger."

I glance around. The street is busy, but no one's paying attention. Everyone's too focused on their own bouncing. "Keep your voice down."

She steps closer. Her eyes are desperate, the kind of desperate that makes people do stupid things. "My sister's name is Anika. She's twenty-three. She runs a flower shop. She's never broken a law in her life."

"Then she'll be fine."

"She won't. The evidence is solid. Someone spent months building this case. They've got witnesses, documents, everything. She's going to be convicted."

I should walk away. I should tell her to find a real lawyer, a real investigator, someone who isn't a criminal herself. But there's something in her voice, a raw edge that reminds me of myself ten years ago, when I was the one begging for help and no one would listen.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Freya."

"Freya, I'm going to give you some advice. Free of charge. Walk away. Your sister is in the system now, and the system doesn't let go. If you keep digging, you'll end up in the Bounce House right next to her."

"I can't walk away. She's my sister."

I sigh. The sun is hot on my shoulders, and I can feel sweat starting to bead along my spine. "Come to my studio. Tonight. We'll talk."

Her face floods with relief. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet."

She nods and hurries off, her satchel bouncing against her hip. I watch her go, and I already know I'm going to regret this. But regret is a familiar feeling. It's practically an old friend.

I finish the walk to my studio and unlock the door. The place smells like ink and antiseptic. My chair is where I left it, the tattoo machine is clean, and the sketches on the wall are waiting for clients who may or may not show up. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes.

The thing about living in a land of bouncing breasts is that you learn to tune things out. The jiggle becomes background noise, like traffic or birdsong. But every once in a while, something breaks through. A particularly aggressive bounce catches your eye. A stranger's laugh makes you turn your head. And you remember that you're surrounded by bodies, by flesh, by the constant reminder that you're alive and so is everyone else.

Tonight, I'll meet Freya. I'll listen to her story. I'll probably get involved, because that's what I do. I make bad decisions and then I tattoo them onto my skin so I never forget.

But for now, I've got a client coming in an hour. A woman who wants a rose on her hip. Simple. Clean. No complications.

I hope.