Music drifts through the hum of traffic, cheerful guitar notes backed by lively drumming. Veering away from the bus stop toward the sound, I discover a side street blocked off with a line of sawhorses. Painted signs hang from the barriers, with the words FARMERS MARKET and images of smiling vegetables dancing in a circle. People mill around on the other side, hefting canvas bags loaded with leafy sprays of greens. All around them, I see tables heaped with produce: lumpy potatoes, late-season tomatoes, carrots, and containers of fresh-picked berries.
Hunger rumbles in my stomach. I slip into the busy throng, accepting a sampling of sliced apples and a cracker topped with homemade salsa. KJ would love this place. The garden he’d kept at the Center provided us with some of our few opportunities for fresh vegetables. A smile twitches my lips as I picture him beside me, wandering through the bounty, smelling herbs, asking a vendor how she manages to grow kale so lush and green.
Suppressing images of the not-very-tasty groceries I bought for the squat, I hand over some of my stolen money in exchange for a freshly roasted sausage. It tastes even better than it smells. Taut skin bursts under my teeth, exploding savory deliciousness over my tongue. I plop onto an empty spot of curb to enjoy the sauerkraut-topped meat in comfort. The sausage is chewy, the sauerkraut a perfect tangy counterpart. I gobble another bite, lost in the pleasure of good food.
“Do you have a few minutes to save the sea lions?”
I start. A sandy-haired man stands in front of me, waving a clipboard in my direction.
“What?” I ask.
The man fixes me with an intense gaze. He’s wearing loose cotton pants, woven sandals despite the chill, and a sweater someone must have knitted by hand. Or tried to knit. A smattering of holes betrays a number of dropped stitches.
“Almost a hundred sea lions a year are killed,” he tells me, “simply because they are eating salmon, their natural prey.”
I wipe mustard off my mouth with a squashed napkin. “Um, that’s too bad.”
“You can help prevent this tragedy.” The man pulls a flyer from a hemp bag draped across his body and hands it to me. There are two pictures. The top one shows a sea lion sunning itself on a large rock, its mouth hanging open in a gaping smile. The bottom one shows another sea lion. This one slumps on a block of concrete, its head covered in red from a bullet hole clearly visible in its skull.
“What we’re asking is that you join our organization,” the man says. “The dues are only thirty dollars per year, but even more importantly, with all of our names together, we can make a statement that the legislature won’t be able to ignore.”
I give him back the flyer. “Sorry. I can’t…” I start to say I can’t give out my name, then switch midstream to say, “afford that.”
The man’s enthusiasm clicks off like a light switch. “Would you like to sign anyway?” he asks, so half-heartedly I can tell he’s given up on me.
“No,” I say. The bloodied sea lion gazes at me reproachfully.
I watch the man walk away with a vague sense of shame and am relieved when someone calls to him. The man hustles over to greet a woman in a long, printed skirt who is standing behind a table a few yards from me. Through the throng of people passing between us, I watch them chatting. They seem to know each other well, hugging when they meet and laughing while they talk. What would it be like to live life so lightly? To be able to blend seamlessly into a crowd. To spend your days nestled in a web of friends and acquaintances.
I take another bite of my lunch and study the pair surreptitiously while I chew. Unlike the other vendors at the market, this woman is manning one of a row of tables that offer flyers rather than food. Each person in the row promotes a different cause. I tilt my head to better read the signs attached to each table: ONLY ORGANICS; SUPPORT FREE TRADE IN GUATEMALA; STOP MANDATORY WATER FLUORIDATION; JOIN THE SOCIETY FOR SPINNER RIGHTS.
I choke on my sausage. The Society for Spinner Rights? That’s the group that fought for us to have allowances, encouraged Centers to include outdoor spaces, and passed legislation requiring that newborn spinners be assigned ethnically appropriate names. Small wins, sure, but maybe they did other things, too. Like help spinners who are free. I shove the last of my sausage down without tasting it. In my head, I see KJ awake and healthy, his eyes gleaming with pride when I tell him I figured out a way to keep all the spinners safe.
Brushing bits of curb dirt from my butt, I stroll down the aisle of tables, making a show of studying the materials at each one. A flame burns in my chest, something between excitement and nerves. Life at the Center hasn’t provided much opportunity to practice talking to strangers. I nod politely while a tall woman explains that drinking fluoride every day lowers children’s IQ. Then I chew on a roasted coffee bean harvested from an eco-farm in the mountains of Guatemala.
I approach the Society for Spinner Rights table with feigned casualness. This table has three types of flyers, all laid out in neat stacks. I pick up each one in turn. The first is topped with the Portland Police Department seal and lists some crimes that have been solved with spinners’ help. The bottom has a tagline that says: Always report suspicious activity within three days. Call the Crime Tips Hotline. The second flyer shows a picture of a girl standing next to a police officer with the words “CHILD LABOR” across the top. The last one has a banner headline proclaiming Spinner Rights Are Human Rights printed over a picture of a group of people holding signs. Memory kicks in. The picture is the same one I saw on the TV news story about the dead spinners in Puerto Rico. I’d assumed at the time that the public reaction was a protest against spinners, but looking more carefully now I see the signs indicate support: NEGLECT = MURDER. One screams: SAVE OUR CHILDREN. WHAT IF THAT KID WAS YOURS? Hope fans the flame in my chest.
“So what does your group do?” I ask the woman working at the table. She’s young, with light-brown hair hanging in a frizzy mass past her shoulders. Her eyes are brown, too, and her nose is thin, with a little pinkness around the edges that gives her a rabbity look.
“We work to improve the living conditions of the spinners in our city,” the woman says.
I flip the sheet over. On the back is a description of the founder of the Society next to a picture of an older man with dark-framed glasses and a goatee. The text says he’s devoted his life to helping spinners. I peer at the black-and-white photo, trying to judge whether the person behind those heavy glasses knows enough to offer help.
“How do you improve conditions for them?” I ask Rabbit Lady.
“Right now, we’re working on a campaign to bring entertainers into the Centers. Like the USO tours for the army, you know?”
The flame in my chest sputters. Bring entertainment to the Centers? How is that supposed to help us? Rabbit Lady must interpret my expression as disapproval because she launches into a prepared speech about how spinners are important members of our society and very misunderstood.
“And it’s not even true that they’re dangerous,” she concludes, “no more than a pit bull is a naturally dangerous animal. As long as they’re trained and kept medicated, they’re perfectly safe.”
I twist the handful of flyers I’m holding into a tight roll and jam them in my pocket. She thinks spinners are like pit bulls? The woman’s arm is pale and lightly freckled, thin-boned and fragile. A growl tickles the back of my throat. That skin would feel soft in a dog’s jaws, the blood beneath it warm and tasting of metal. Her bones would crack easily, they would…
Rabbit Lady holds out a clipboard, like the one the sea lion guy offered me. “Would you like to sign our petition?”
I push away the gruesome fantasy with a shake of my head. “What’s the petition for?”
“When we get a thousand signatures, we’re going to send it to the regional director.” Rabbit Lady leans toward me, like she’s sharing a secret. “It’s too bad the Portland office is closing. The local CIC director is a real
ly good guy. He’s accepted lots of our suggestions.”
Anger sweeps through me so violently my vision blurs. This woman—a person who claims to want to help us—thinks our murderer is a really good guy? At least the people who hate us extend their wrath to our institution and its leaders. This woman actually admires Barnard. I lunge for the clipboard.
Rabbit Lady looks startled. By the way her eyes are flicking around, I’m guessing she’s decided that talking to me was a poor decision. I snatch the clipboard and scrawl my real name across the signature line. In the spot for an address, I write the Center’s. Let Barnard see that. Let him know I’m out here—free, alive, and helping the activists, however stupid the petition’s goal is.
“Thanks?” Rabbit Lady says, easing the clipboard from my rigid fingers. I glower at the innocent paper, wishing that my hate could turn the ink into poison. Then when the sheet finally lands in Barnard’s hand, the poison would seep into his skin and kill him.
“What’s your name?” the woman asks.
I shift my burning gaze from the clipboard to Rabbit Lady’s face. She’s holding the clipboard close to her nose, trying to make out my signature with a frown of concentration. As quickly as my rage flared, it is now doused.
“Why does it matter?” I edge away from the table.
Rabbit Lady studies me like she’s trying to read me the same way she tried to read my signature.
“If they can’t make it out,” Rabbit Lady says, “the signature doesn’t count.”
I take another step toward the crowd.
“My name is Alice.”
“Really?” Rabbit Lady peers at the signature again. “It looks more like an x than an e at the end.”
“Forget it.” There’s sweat gathering on my upper lip. “I shouldn’t have signed. Just cross it out.”
“Hey,” she says, her voice serious. “Wait.”
I don’t. Turning on my heel, I dive into the market, nearly knocking over a stack of fresh corn in my rush to get away. From behind me, I can hear Rabbit Lady calling me to come back. Through the jumble of sound, I can’t make out whether she’s saying “Alice” or “Alex.” People are everywhere, blocking my path, no matter which way I turn. Are they doing it on purpose? I dodge in front of an immensely pregnant woman, who frowns at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter. People are definitely staring at me now. I tilt my head to avoid eye contact and hustle through the crowd. Beads of sweat trickle down the back of my neck. When I reach the market’s perimeter barrier, I clear it in a single giant leap and race for the bus stop.
The bus is pulling in just as I get there, and I leap, panting, through the open doors. The driver looks from me to the fare box with the eternal patience of a rock. I dig in my pocket, scattering coins onto the floor in my rush to pick out the correct fare. My back tingles with the sensation of someone watching me. I peek over my shoulder. Rabbit Lady is just down the street, struggling to get past a large family who are taking up most of the sidewalk. In one hand, she holds a cell phone pressed against her ear.
Fear makes me clumsy. I stuff money into the box, leaving the fallen change for anyone who wants it. Come on, bus, go, go, go. I lurch into a pair of empty seats part way down the aisle. The doors close with a tired hiss and the bus groans away from the curb.
Rabbit Lady slides past the smudged plastic windows. I slink down low in my seat, hoping against hope she didn’t see where I went. How could I have been so astoundingly stupid? I’ve told Jack a hundred times to lay low and not make a scene, and then I go announce my real name to a spinner-related group and recklessly shove my way through crowds of people. This is exactly the kind of behavior wipers would track. I hit my forehead against the window.
What if the whole Society for Spinner Rights is set up to draw in desperate spinners? And I just walked straight into their trap? I rub the sweat on my upper lip. If Rabbit Lady called a wiper, how long would it take for one of them to track me down? I scan the people outside my window. A woman pushing a stroller glances at the bus, then pulls out a cell phone. A bicyclist zooms out of an alley so fast he almost knocks over a couple crossing the street. The door to a store pops open, and a man in a red apron hurries outside, his head turning left and right as he searches for something. Or someone.
The air in the bus grows stuffy. I feel like I’m floating between two parallel worlds, one pleasantly innocuous, the other rife with danger. Is the guy dozing under his headphones across the aisle really sleeping, or is he watching me? My fingertip is in my mouth, the nail shredding under the nervous grind of my teeth. What if the wipers have special technology that alerts them whenever someone stops time? They could follow the trail of my freezes, and it would lead them straight to the squat.
My mind brushes the time strands floating around me. The freeze waiting behind their endless drifting calls to me like a sanctuary. If I got off the bus and stopped time right now, I could race to the squat in zero real time. I dig the phone from my pocket and tap on the map feature. The squat is over four miles away, which means I’d have to hold time for at least an hour. Even if I could hold time that long, I’d be so exhausted when I got there, I’d be worthless if anything went wrong.
A motorcycle zooms into the lane next to the bus with an angry roar. All my failures rain down like a load of rocks: not finding a new place to live, running through a mob of people, signing that useless petition. The fingernail in my mouth tastes like mustard, adding extra vividness to the memory of the farmers market fiasco. My body tilts forward as the bus pulls up at a red light. The motorcycle squeals to a halt beside it. KJ’s face floats before me, his eyes not lit with pride, but rather dark with disappointment. I bite down so hard on my nail, I draw blood.
The motorcyclist drops one leg to the ground to wait out the light. He’s dressed head to foot in black leather and radiates the sinister aura of that robot guy in the Terminator movies. I watch him pull out a phone and flick through the screens. When he raises his head to scan the length of the bus, his mirrored sunglasses flash. My chest clenches. Is it my imagination, or does the man’s gaze pause when it reaches my face?
The light changes and the bus grinds forward. My heart is beating so hard it clogs my throat. Did I imagine the rider’s interest in me? He’s still beside the window, keeping steady pace with the bus’s lumbering crawl. What if this is the person Rabbit Lady phoned?
A blinker clicks, and the bus pulls to a slow stop in the middle of the block. The man on the motorcycle veers toward the curb. I stand up so I can see out the front window. The biker has shut off his engine and is hurrying toward the bus’s now open doors. Terror blanks out my brain. If he gets on, I’ll have nowhere to hide. He could slide a leash on me.
The man steps onto the bus. He has his helmet tucked under one arm and is obviously scanning the occupants, stopping instantly when he sees me, still standing smack in the middle of the bus. Our eyes lock.
“Alex,” the man says.
Instinct overwhelms thought. I bolt for the bus’s back door. Harsh diesel fumes envelop me as I shove my way outside. I sprint across the sidewalk and plunge into the thick leaves of a hedge. Branches catch at my hair, tear my skin. I struggle through them, scrambling until I reach a spot between the hedge’s green shelter and a parked car on the other side. My brain is spinning so fast I can barely concentrate enough to grab time.
Blessed silence takes over the world. I huddle in the frozen quiet, listening to the ragged gasps of my breath. Leaves tangle my hair. My cheek stings where a branch must have scratched it. I stand up on shaky legs.
The motorcyclist has left the bus. He’s standing on the sidewalk just outside the door, head turned in the direction of my panicked flight. A wave of nausea threatens the sausage in my belly. I try to memorize what he looks like, but with my fear and the distance between us, I can’t absorb more than the most superficial impressions: Hispanic male, slim build, stra
ight brown hair long enough to brush his collar. Remembering the inexplicable break in my freeze when I was at Barnard’s, I tiptoe around the hedge, making a huge detour to avoid the bus and the biker.
I run down the middle of the road in frozen time. When my head starts hurting so badly I can barely focus, I duck into someone’s garage, melt time, and pull out my phone so I can navigate side streets. Two blocks later, a truck driver slows to ask me directions, and I fail to stifle a small scream, startling an old lady out power walking.
All through my stumbling trek back to the squat, only one thought runs over and over through my head: the wipers are here, and they’re after us.
* * *
The crumbling masonry of the squat no longer promises security. The dark windows hide any hint of what is happening behind those silent walls. Have KJ and Shannon already been discovered? Is someone lurking there in the dim light, waiting to grab me the second I step inside?
I wrangle the last shreds of my energy so I can stop time. It wavers under my control, the threads so fine I know I have only minutes before they slide away. I climb the ladder as quickly as my exhausted legs will carry me. No obvious clues offer either solace or confirmation of an intruder—no trace of running footprints in the dust, no obviously askew object betraying a struggle. I creep forward a few steps. Jack is sitting in the kitchen, the picture of relaxed boredom—one hand sunk in a bag of potato chips and his head bent over the screen of his phone. Time wriggles away from me.
“We need to leave the squat right away,” I announce, before Jack has a chance to do anything except start at my sudden appearance.
“What?” Jack says, so loudly my head throbs. “Why?”
“I think I’ve been followed.”
He jumps to his feet, his head whipping around to search the room’s duskier corners. “And you led them here?”
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