“Hey,” I say. I catch Kamal’s eyes in the rearview. The smell of pine envelops me and my eyes burn with the urge to blink. But I don’t. I stay fixed on his amber irises. I silently ask them to hold me, to keep me safe.
We drive down the block and I break his gaze. The houses shuffle by like a deck of familiar cards. We pass the empty spot where our car had been.
In that moment, I want to turn back. All the way back, to when I didn’t know enough to know some things don’t work out how you want them to.
• • •
I woke early, before dawn, a sound weaving in and out of the air outside the tent. It was a howl, high and haunting. I slipped out quietly as the others slept. As the last embers of our fire lay choking in the pit, there it was again. The howl, the call—close and distant at once. I put on my flip-flops and headed off down the path. Its knotted roots felt lumpy under my thin rubber soles. The old pines were lit silver by the moon and the sky was spread out like a canvas for the wash of shimmering stars above. They were just starting to fade with the sun’s approach.
I walked softly, a twelve-year-old visitor, not wanting to disturb this ancient place that wasn’t mine. I heard it again, closer now. There in the clearing ahead I saw her. A mother and her three pups. Their gray coats were rich and full. Their eyes were shining bright.
I stopped and sat down. Dew against my legs. The pups tumbled down and scrambled back up onto their feet, over and over as their mother chased them in jest. I understood the danger, but I was at ease. I knew I did not need to be afraid.
The stars continued to vanish and all at once the spell of night was broken. The game was finished. The mother looked at me. I jumped to my feet. A flash of yellow. What if my instinct had betrayed me?
She began trotting toward me, trailed by her young. Before I could run, she was right there. Right in front of me. Her gait slowed to a stop and she lay down at my feet. The pups came up behind, nuzzled against her resting body, and began to nurse. The mother stretched her paws to cover my toes like a blanket. Her warm fur tickled my skin as I stood motionless. I thought maybe I was dreaming.
Then, as quick as anything, they leaped up and disappeared into the deep green forest. The sun rose and I watched the trees for a long time, hoping they’d come back. But they never did.
CHAPTER 8
“We have reports from at least two dozen municipalities extending as far east as Massachusetts and as far west as Oregon detailing another disturbing trend in the wake of the ARNS outbreak.” We sit quietly as a reporter’s smooth baritone comes through the radio. “Small groups of armed men have taken to the streets in organized patrols, claiming to be guardians of local safety but, in a number of cases, harassing those they deem suspicious and robbing people of precious food and water. These groups are claiming to be protected under the U.S. Constitution’s Second Amendment but are receiving pushback from certain members of state and local governments who are concerned for the safety of their constituents. More as this story develops.”
“Fantastic,” Kamal mutters. He turns down the volume as his driverless Tesla glides to a halt at a red light. I’m still wary of cars that drive by themselves, even if it’s officially safer. People can earn forgiveness for their mistakes, but machines don’t care if they hurt you.
A taxi pulls up next to us. The driver is shrouded in a heavy black gas mask. Is it the large eyeholes and muzzle-like mouthpiece that make him terrifying? Or is it what the mask implies—suffocation, poison, death? He turns toward me and I shudder. The light changes and we cruise onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway heading west.
“We need to tell Mom something,” Ben says. “She’s gonna lose her mind.”
I draft a text and pass him my phone.
“Mom,” he begins aloud.
My cheeks flush. “Really? You can’t just read it in your head?”
“I need to hear it,” he replies. “Mom. I know this will be hard to grasp, but Ben and I had to leave. We have to try and help Dad. We will stay safe and be home as soon as we can. Confía en nosotros. Te queremos.”
Kamal turns to us. “Translation on that last part?”
“Trust us. We love you,” I reply. I picture her reading these words and having no idea where we are. I imagine her grasping for a clump of her gown, like a life raft. Even though our relationship is complicated, I know she’ll be terrified that we’re gone.
“Send it,” Ben says. I nod and it’s on its way. The car speeds along the road, nearly empty of traffic. Most people who are leaving have already left. Those without electric cars are conserving gas and everyone else is staying indoors, sick, or dead.
The radio drones on, too quiet to really hear. I look at Phoebe in the front seat. Her pale skin is visible in fragments behind her glasses and mask. Her red hair is tied up in a messy bun. Beautiful still, but more ordinary now. Or maybe I have more important things to worry about.
“How about some music?” Kamal asks.
“Yes!” Phoebe turns to me. “Lu, whaddya got?”
I steal a look at Kamal in the mirror—a chance to impress him, or embarrass myself.
“Yeah, what do you have?” Ben asks. “Katy Perry? Or are you straight-up Taylor Swift?”
“Oh my God, I fully heard you singing Taylor Swift in the shower, like, a week ago.” A week ago, when everything was normal.
He leans forward and whispers to Phoebe. “That’s not true.”
I lean forward too. “It is one-hundred-percent true.”
She laughs and Ben rolls his eyes, but I know he’s blushing underneath his mask.
I scroll through my playlists. I stop at “Dad’s Old School Reggae Jams.” This was always our go-to because reggae is literally the only genre that my dad, Ben, and I can all tolerate. I tap Play on the opening track: Bob Marley’s “Sun Is Shining.”
The song’s slow, easy beat seems to prop me up. Comfort washes over me. Kamal and I lock eyes in the mirror.
“Good choice,” he says as his head moves with the rhythm.
I smile. I enjoy his approval, but it’s more than that. As we watch each other in the mirror, I feel like the diver leaving the platform twenty or thirty feet above the pool. It’s like my feet have traded the solidity of the board for the expansiveness of the air. Inevitability takes over as gravity goes to work. Nothing will stop the collision, and in this moment I know: Something’s going to happen with us.
We turn onto the Brooklyn Bridge. The song ends and Kamal’s face blurs as the bridge’s tall, gray-brown towers come to loom in front of us. I look up at the bike path and Janine’s voice echoes: “It’s all downhill from here.”
My chest tightens like I’m finding out for the first time that she’s sick, that she’s most likely dead. A swirl of heavy brown light. I shut my eyes. I snap my seat belt away from my chest until it locks. Loss is like a wheel that keeps spinning you back to where you started.
“So. What’s the plan here?” Ben’s voice settles me. I open my eyes and focus on the shape of his hands in his lap.
“We’ll drive until dark, then find a cheap hotel to crash,” Phoebe replies. “Should take us three days to get to LA.”
“And what happens in LA?”
“We go to The Pulse. The Peers there will have a plan for us,” Phoebe says.
“Oh good,” Ben snaps. “The Pulse. Where we get to pretend we’re homeless trust fund kids. Except Lu and I don’t have trust funds.”
“Ben. I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. So’s everyone. But no one actually forced you to come on this trip.” Phoebe manages to sound both soft and cutting.
He sighs. “Sorry. I’m just. Yeah.” He looks over at me. “So who are the Peers exactly?”
“Front Line is a leaderless organization. The local chapters are self-governing and self-sustaining. The Peers rotate in a leadership role; they oversee according to the Code, but they don’t govern. Technically there is no one person in charge.”
“Sounds like AA,” I
mumble.
Ben narrows his eyes. I can see the compulsion to challenge her thrashing around in his chest like a caged bull.
I eye the water. We’re over one hundred feet up, halfway between Brooklyn and Manhattan. I imagine the car smashing into the guardrail and being vaulted into the air. How many times would we spin before plunging into the river? Would our hearts stop? Would time slow down? Would it even exist at all?
Ben can’t help himself. “Come on.” His voice crackles. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous at all,” retorts Phoebe.
“Whatever.”
“Look, what you think you know? You don’t know. It’s just what you’ve been fed by a totally vapid, materialistic, fear-based culture that values money over people. When people value human life most of all, amazing things are possible. And people can be led without leaders because greed goes out the window.”
Ben squints again. “Yeah. Not buying it. People value money because it matters.”
“It only matters because we choose to value it. We could easily choose to value something else instead.”
“Well, we’ve chosen money.” Case closed.
“Yeah and catastrophe is a powerful equalizer,” Phoebe counters.
“What does that mean? Are you, like, glad about ARNS?” Ben shifts in his seat.
“Of course not. But it will lead to progress of some kind. It will change things, some things for the better. That’s the undeniable nature of hardship, right?” I wait for Ben to say something more, but he’s probably thinking what I am: that Phoebe’s words sound like something our dad would say. He disappears into his phone.
“There’s someone near LA who says she has a cure,” I say tentatively. “She put up a video on your site. Then it got taken down, but—”
“You mean that Evan whatever-her-name-is?” Phoebe sneers.
“Evans. Yeah.”
“She’s apparently some bipolar nut who went off her meds and started posting a bunch of psycho shit about conspiracies. She’s not the only one. They’re all mentally ill or just media-hungry.”
“Right.” A hiss wraps around my head as the disappointment registers. “I guess that shouldn’t be surprising. But she sounded … convincing somehow.”
“Crazy people always sound convincing because they believe themselves.”
We rocket through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey. We pass gas stations with lines of cars winding out into the streets. I half expect to see my dad’s car.
“Is there a medical camp near here?” I ask.
“No, further south,” Phoebe replies. “Near Newark.”
“Do you think they’re there by now?” Ben asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. My watch buzzes with a text. My mom: I am begging you, please don’t do this. Turn around and go home. My finger hovers over Reply.
I could be infected. My father might die. Evans B. is nothing but a joke and the entire world is turning upside down. I glance at Phoebe, then Kamal, then Ben. Out the window, industrial smokestacks and electrical wires, steel bridges and sprawling truck depots all stand like sleeping giants in the late morning light. They can’t protect me.
Normally my mother’s words would build a nest inside me. They would make my own point of view invisible. But as I inhale, my thin paper mask suctioning against my face, I remember that there is no normal now. And I know that there is no going back.
I shut my messages without responding and settle my head against the window. I focus on the music again: “Rivers of Babylon.” Its sad melody and simple chord progression are comfortable like an old sweatshirt. My eyes close and, without meaning to, I fall asleep.
Dear Luisa,
I am doing my ninth step in The Program, which is where we make amends to the people we have harmed through our drinking and drug use. I realize as I’m sitting here that this is not as hard a letter to write as I imagined it would be. Because I have spent years apologizing to you in my head. And now I have the chance to do it in a way that you can hold on to for the rest of your life.
I remember the moment you were born so clearly it still takes my breath away. I remember the sound of your first cries and your small hands reaching forward. I remember holding you wrapped in a blanket and looking right into your eyes—eyes that still look exactly the same. I looked down and told you, you are not my property. I told you, your life is yours, not mine, to live. I wanted you to be independent, to be strong, to be yourself. And you are all of those things and I am so proud of you.
But what I’m most sorry about is that you became those things sooner than you should have because the difficulty of living with an addict didn’t give you a choice. In too many ways, you had to be strong. In too many ways, you had to do things and make sense of things on your own. It was my job to protect you. It was my job to make you feel safe and loved, not to let you live your own life at the age of four, or seven, or ten. I’m sorry for that.
I’m sorry for the times I yelled. For the times I scared you or made you doubt yourself. I’m sorry for being drunk at the swimming pool. I’m sorry for not letting you stay innocent and trusting for as long as you should have. I’m sorry I can’t go back in time. I do not expect or demand your forgiveness, but I will of course welcome it, if and when you choose to give it.
I love you,
Dad
I wake up disoriented. Farmland extends in every direction. “Where are we?” I ask.
“Just outside California,” Kamal answers.
“What?” My body seizes. How could I have slept for three days? I grab for information out the window.
“California, Pennsylvania.” Kamal can barely contain himself. “I’ve been waiting for, like, two hours to say that. You slept hard.”
“Yeah. I still feel exhausted.”
“I’m starving,” offers Ben.
Kamal turns back toward us. “You guys did bring food, right?”
“We were supposed to bring food?” Ben asks sarcastically. He and Kamal exchange stupid faces. “Also, I have to pee,” Ben says.
Kamal rolls his eyes. “Tired, hungry, and have to pee. You guys are such whiners.”
“Are we there yet?” I whine in my most whiney of whiney voices. Kamal catches my eye in the mirror. I look at Phoebe. She’s staring out the window. It’s not like her to be so quiet.
“But seriously though,” Ben snaps. “I really have to pee.”
“Okay, okay. I should try and charge the car too.” Kamal pulls up the map on his phone. “This isn’t a good place to stop. We’re about to go through back-to-back tunnels and then we can look for a safe place, cool?” Ben and I nod.
Phoebe takes off her sunglasses as we come around a bend. Up ahead I spot the double-barreled opening of the Blue Mountain Tunnel. I catch the words on the sign as we pass from the bright light of afternoon into the orange glow of overhead fluorescents. Phoebe’s eyes are red like maybe she was crying.
“Are you all right?” I ask her.
“Fine,” she says. But she isn’t.
We shoot through the tube like a rocket. I consider the weight of the mountain balanced perfectly on all sides. Layer upon layer of dense rock, pressed down over millions of years, was slowly carved away to make this empty shaft now covered with tiles and a stream of lights. And by some miracle, the mountain doesn’t collapse.
It’s not long before I see a speck of daylight up ahead. We are almost through. But as we draw nearer, a dark silhouette framed by a flashing red light appears in the middle of the road.
“Kamal,” I blurt out, bracing myself as the car gently slows to a full stop in front of the obstruction.
“Shit,” Ben says. I quickly count the men who are standing between us and safe passage out of the tunnel: nine. Six with assault rifles and three whose tightly packed muscles and narrow eyes make them look scary as hell.
“I would really like to look more white right now,” murmurs Kamal between flashes of mustard-colored light.
&
nbsp; “Quiet,” Phoebe snaps. My pulse leaps into my ears as a thin, muscular guy with a short beard and large rifle approaches the driver’s side door. Kamal puts down his window. We all hold our breath as the tip of the gun noses its way inside like a curious dog.
“What brings you folks out on this glorious summer’s day?” His voice is gravelly. To me, his face reeks of sulfur.
“We’re with Front Line,” Phoebe says firmly.
He chuckles. “And what’s your business in the great state of Pennsylvania?”
“I should be asking you that,” Phoebe replies.
I flinch.
“Because I can guarantee,” she continues, “that my resources are more vast and more dangerous than whatever you and your friends think you can accomplish with these guns. My organization knows precisely where we are. If something happens to us, something will happen to you. So you should probably just get out of our way and let us pass.”
“Hey sister, there’s no need to get yourself so riled up.”
“I’m not your sister,” Phoebe barks.
“And I don’t like nasty girls,” he says sharply. A dark vibe spreads through the car. My focus darts between the gun and his mouth. He isn’t that much older than we are. He has circles under his eyes. There’s a wheeze underneath his words, like he’s hungry for air. I can hardly breathe through the smell of sulfur.
I don’t know why exactly, but I don’t look away. I don’t hold my breath or tap my foot. I plant myself on that beach in my mind, dig my feet down into the wet sand, and let the sensations come. There is something I can see that no one else can. The more I look, the more I can see it: He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. But if he were made to feel foolish, he might do it anyway.
“Thank you for your service.” My voice rings out like a slap. Those words, the ones I’ve heard so many times at my dad’s AA meetings after someone tells the story of their recovery or volunteers to make the coffee.
The bearded man takes a step to the side. He pulls the gun back and glares at me through my tinted window. Then he bends down and leans forward. I open the window and look straight at him. Sulfur. His face. Yellow light. My feet in the sand. I allow it all.
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