I catch only glimpses: a rainbow of different colored tents; a man riding by on a horse, balancing a wooden bucket on his head; shirtless men and bikini-clad women working in a garden bed the size of a square city block, fresh tomatoes climbing high on vines; a pigpen; rows of chicken coops; smoke rising from a berth of grilling stations. The smell of roasting meat makes my mouth water.
Like with Freddie and Ron, it’s hard to tell if this place is a vision of the future or a vestige from the past.
Within minutes The Pulse is behind us, replaced by a network of crossing tracks, signal switches, and railroad equipment. This is it; we’re here. The train comes to rest, a final burst of steam escaping as the brakes engage. Relief.
I gather my pack. I put the Bible back inside and stand up. I look at Ron.
Starr. Georgette. Ron and Freddie. Another good-bye. Another connection that’s meant everything for a brief time and will now be washed away like a sandcastle at high tide.
I kneel down next to Jordana. Her face has turned pale blue. I swallow the hint of chocolate the color leaves on my tongue. I feel a spark; maybe it’s that warmth again. It rises up and out of my body and pours itself over hers, warming her cold limbs, bathing her still vessel in light that cannot be seen with ordinary eyes.
“Wolf girl,” Ron says, breaking the exchange. My spine lengthens and I turn toward him. He hands me a crumpled piece of paper with an address scrawled across it in black marker: 1418 N. SPRING STREET.
“May you find what you’re looking for,” he says. “May you see into the dark.” His gaze unnerves me. I put the paper into my pocket.
“Thank you,” I say. I look to Freddie. “Thank you and good luck to you. To both of you.” I throw my pack down out of the train and jump out behind it.
CHAPTER 14
Kamal and Phoebe follow as I head straight along the shimmering rails. The tall, faceless buildings of downtown loom behind us and The Pulse calls us forward. I feel strong. I feel ready, for what I have no idea.
“Merz is waiting for us,” Phoebe says. “With food.”
“Best possible news,” Kamal exclaims.
Phoebe catches up to me. “What was on that piece of paper?”
A burst of blue. “Nothing. Just a drawing of Freddie’s dogs,” I lie. “Can I use your phone to text Ben?”
She hands it to me.
“Did you send Merz the video?”
“Not yet,” she says. “I guess I should.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I do think people need to know what’s going on. It’s why I fought for releasing Hugo. But I don’t know. There’s more to think about now.” Her sudden uncertainty rings out like an alarm. It’s so unlike her and in that instant I start to wonder: Maybe she’s keeping a secret of her own.
A clear picture of The Pulse comes into view as we follow the tracks around a curve. The smell of roasting meat returns and my stomach growls.
“Have you been here before?” I ask Phoebe.
“Yeah, I came for the protests after Blackout.”
“What was it like?”
“It was thrilling. And scary. I owe this place and this movement a lot. They gave me purpose when I felt like my whole life had been burned to the ground.” Her phone buzzes. “Ben says he’s a block from your house.”
I smile.
We approach the gate. It’s like the one at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, only with even more security. We are patted down from head to toe and given fresh masks and gloves. A medic takes our temperatures and examines us for any sign of infection. I stare beyond his penlight into his steel-colored eyes. Hurry up so we can eat.
We pass the physical and are sent down a winding path, past the chicken coops and pigpens.
“So who lives here, really?” Kamal asks.
“Scientists, lawyers, business leaders, coders, artists, scholars of all kinds. Serious people. They have shelter, healthcare, education, everything,” Phoebe replies. Kamal kind of grunts. “Does that surprise you?”
He shrugs. “I guess I imagined everyone was just sitting around smoking weed all day growing vegetables.”
“Yeah, no. This is what the whole world could look like if we wanted it to.”
We arrive at a makeshift hut made out of old tires and chain-link fencing. Inside, the smell of the rubber sticks in my nose. Sage burns into wide, smoky tendrils, obscuring the bright-eyed, short-haired head of the young man there to greet us.
“Welcome!” he exclaims cheerfully, waving away the smoke. “Your parcels are numbers fifty-two, three, and four.” He passes us each a basic one-person tent and self-inflating sleeping mat.
I pass the tent back. “I have my own.”
“Okeydokey. I’ll be texting each of you a map and the Code of Conduct. Read through it; tells you how we run. Each parcel has a fast-charger for phones, tablets, what have you. And here’s some headlamps and canteens for water. Jules will take you down,” he adds, pointing back outside to a six-seater bicycle rickshaw that’s waiting for us.
We head back out and climb onto the rickshaw.
“Good morning,” Jules chirps. Her thick, dark-skinned legs flex with effort as she pedals us straight into a throbbing surrealist hipster explosion of life. “Where we heading?”
“Meal Center,” Phoebe replies.
Jules nods. “Excellent.” She builds up speed, expertly navigating the narrow passages that cut through the various tents, lean-tos, and fire pits.
“So how does this work with ARNS and people living so closely together?” Kamal asks.
“We’ve had a couple of cases,” Jules replies over her shoulder. “But we have the Code. And there was a modification created by the Peers in case of infectious disease. So it’s pretty straightforward in terms of protocol. The few cases we’ve had have been contained quickly. Zero-tolerance policy basically; immediate expulsion.”
I look down at my phone, curious about the Code, but no battery, still. “So they just kick out sick people?” I ask.
“There’s a Front Line medical camp a mile away. Anyone with symptoms would be taken there for treatment. So yes, there are no infected people allowed inside The Pulse.”
I survey the massive expanse as we ride through row after row of tents extending in every direction. “It’s incredible you have this much space.”
“It was slated to be a football arena, for a new team,” Phoebe explains. “But the deal fell through and the land got tied up in arbitration. The investors agreed to lease it to Front Line for practically nothing until the case is resolved. It won’t be for forever, but it’s pretty amazing for now.” I nod. It is amazing and I can see why Phoebe wanted to be a part of it.
The Meal Center is just a cafeteria under a tent: long rows of mismatched tables and folding chairs, industrial-size chafing dishes, water coolers. We stand before trays of green summer vegetables, plump roasted chickens dripping with fresh garlic and herbs, thick slabs of juicy pink watermelon, baskets of golden cornbread slathered in gobs of butter. My knees literally weaken.
“Look at that,” marvels Kamal.
“All of it grown right here.” A familiar voice. I turn to see Merz standing behind us. His cocky stance and searing eyes are more attractive than I remember. “Help yourself,” he says.
I step forward and pile an empty plate with mounds of everything. We take seats around a table in the corner and devour our food. We barely stop to breathe.
“We haven’t seen the news today,” I say once my plate is clean and stomach full.
“Well, China and its vaccine are full of shit,” Merz replies. “Bell leaked a video last night saying his team is making progress. He may be full of shit too.” He turns to Phoebe. “Where are we with Nam?”
I look at Phoebe. The video was sent to her and it’s up to her to decide what to do with it.
“I got another video,” she says after a long pause. Kamal and I shift in our seats.
“Can I see it?” Merz demands.
P
hoebe’s brow is tight and her eyes flit around nervously. She hands him her phone.
The sound is enough to make my stomach turn. When it’s finally over, Merz is quiet. A breeze rustles the bushes outside the tent. Birds whistle their songs, oblivious.
“We need to show this to the Peers,” he says finally. “We need to call a meeting.” He looks at his watch. “The Cove at eight.” Phoebe nods and Merz gets up and walks away. My eyes trail him involuntarily. His swagger seems to leave a stream of brooding energy behind him, like a speedboat’s wake.
“Should I have told him about the poems?” I ask.
Phoebe follows Merz with her gaze. “Let’s wait until the meeting,” she replies.
“If what I said on the train is true, then spreading that video is only going to make people more afraid. It’s exactly what whoever created this thing wants.”
“First of all, we don’t know that anyone created ARNS. Second of all, it’s not up to us to decide what should be done with the video. That’s not how Front Line works,” she says.
“I think putting it out there is dangerous,” I tell her.
“You should say that at the meeting.”
We walk back across the expansive grounds. Ben must be home by now. I’m afraid to find out what happened when he walked through our front door. Our angry mother. The details of our father wasting away, alone on some filthy cot. Maybe something worse.
Instead I think about how I will find Evans Birkner. I think about that video from Bell. I want to see it. I want to hear of his progress, whether it’s real or exaggerated. And I want to see his face. Because he still signifies the bright possibility of my future, maybe even more so now that I exist in a present defined by mounting loss.
We follow the busy paths carved through the mess of tents and lean-tos made from plastic milk jugs, random bits of wood and corrugated steel, garbage bags and tin foil, old tarps and parachutes. There are roofs of thatched palm fronds and tree branches, doors made of broken mirrors and pinecones, walls papered with newspaper. Nothing has been wasted. There’s something comforting about that. It makes me feel like we don’t really need much to survive.
We find our parcels: three vacant eight-foot square plots of open dirt marked and numbered with spray paint. There’s a box on the ground with a thick cord that runs out from the bottom and disappears into the ground. I immediately plug in my phone.
I look at Phoebe and Kamal staring blankly at their rolled up tents. “You’ve never been camping before?”
“I stayed in a tent when we went on safari in South Africa,” Kamal replies. “But it had a queen-size bed, electricity, and bowls of fresh fruit in it, so I’m thinking that wasn’t quite camping?”
I smile.
“It’s been a few years,” Phoebe adds.
I unfurl my tent and line up the stakes. I use the Bible to hammer them into the ground.
“It appears you have been camping at least once or twice,” Kamal observes.
“Yeah. We used to go as a family.” Family. As the word forms in my mouth it’s like an invisible hand reaches into my chest and grabs every ounce of breath. I gasp for air. I’m suddenly dizzy with a swarm of flashing hues and images.
The four of us around the fire on Mount Katahdin.
My mother holding me against her chest under a silver-starred sky.
Running with my brother through the forest blanketed in pine.
My father driving tent stakes into the earth.
It’s like a dream bent through a kaleidoscope of different colors. I shut my eyes and feel for the ground with my hands. I grab fistfuls of warm dirt. I imagine my feet in the sand. I bring up the sound of ocean waves crashing. One. Two. Three. Four.
The visions slowly recede. I open my eyes. I look up at the cloudless sky. And I know.
My father is dead.
I scramble to my feet. “I have to call my mom.”
I pull my phone from the fast-charger and stumble down the path toward the large fence that separates The Pulse from the rest of the world.
If the entirety of human existence can be represented by the width of a single strand of hair, the walk to the fence is as long as the Atlantic is wide. Time stretches like taffy as the phone rings in my ear—it’s like the warbled drone of a heartbeat in slow motion.
I put on my glasses and my mother’s face appears floating in front of me, the gray lattice of the fence bleeding through the projected image.
“Luisa, cariño.” Her voice cracks into sobs before she can say another word. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Mom. Yes, I’m okay. I’m not sick. I’m safe.” She gulps for air and my eyes open wider as though that will bring more of her to me.
She gathers herself. “Lu, mi vida,” she says.
“Yes, I’m here,” I answer evenly, waiting for her to tell me what I already know.
She sighs. A pause. She looks at me. Her mouth quivers, and then she says simply, “He’s gone.”
I look past the fence to the train tracks, the empty freeway, the unfamiliar mountains behind it—all of it bathed in the soft brown light of my sadness, like an old photo. It strikes me in that moment: I am so far from home.
“Lu?” Her voice is warm and her face relaxed like it was when I was small.
“I’m here,” I say. “When?”
“An hour ago. We tried to call you.”
“My battery was dead,” I mumble. “Where was he? Was he alone?” My voice falters.
“He was here. He was at home,” she says softly. “He was with me. And Ben.” I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “He waited for Ben.” She smiles through tears.
“But you took him to the camp.”
“I never made it there. I realized he needed to be home. He needed me. And … I loved him.” Silver flashes across my mind along with Jordana’s words: Love is what we’re here to do. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s not your fault.”
“No, Lu. I’m sorry. For all of it, for everything. I should never have left you.”
“This is my fault,” I say. “It’s my fault.” Yellow now. Yellow and that hiss that tells me I fucked up.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Yes. I went out with Janine and she was sick and they took us to the hospital and Dad had to come and get me there, and he touched the door. That’s how this happened. So you should know that this is my fault and you can go ahead and blame me.” I go nearer to the fence. I wrap my fingers through the chain-link.
My mother’s silence fills me with shame.
I lock eyes with her.
“This is not your fault,” she says. “We don’t know how this happened. We can’t know. But it’s nothing you did or didn’t do. The only thing you have to think about is that your father loved you. That you brought him joy every single day and you made his life meaningful. He asked me to tell you that. He needed to make sure you know that.”
Tears come and the world melts into the color of the earth itself.
“This is not your fault,” she says again as I cry.
“Are you … you’re not sick?” I ask, the sadness ebbing against fear.
“I’m not sick. But I need you to come home. Please, please come home.”
“I will. Is Ben with you? I want to see him.”
“Yes, he’s here.” She calls to him and steps out of view.
“Hey,” Ben says, taking her place.
“You got your good-bye,” I whisper.
“Yup. I don’t know if he heard me.”
“I’m sure he heard you.” I swallow. “What was it like? Being there?”
“Hard.” His voice wavers. “But it was the right thing, to come back.”
I look down at the ground. “Did he wonder where I was?”
“He was pretty out of it. But I told him you had gone to try and save him. I swear I think he smiled when I said that.” I manage to smile too. “And he left this for you.” He carrie
s the phone over to the kitchen counter and trains the lens on a piece of music paper. Written across it in my father’s neat, all-cap hand: LU, MAKE SOMETHING OF YOURSELF.
I snap a screenshot of the note.
“What does that mean?” I ask. “He never cared about me being an achiever.”
“Like I said, he was really out of it.”
I close my eyes, imagine planting my feet in the sand, and try to picture him writing those words.
“I never told him I forgave him,” I say, looking back at Ben. “When he gave me his letter of amends. I just never said anything about it. I always thought there would be time. I thought when we were adults we would sit down and talk about everything like our childhoods were movies we’d all gone to see.”
My eyes are begging my brother for something my father isn’t there to give—a release from my shame.
“He knew you forgave him, Lu.” He pauses. “Do you want to see him? I could take the phone up there.”
“Okay,” I say even though most of me doesn’t want to. My breath is shallow as I watch Ben’s POV tromp up the two flights of stairs, past everything that is most familiar to me in the world. I hold the fence tighter.
The creak of the door to my father’s room as Ben opens it. He steps inside, then hovers at a distance.
“I can’t go too close,” he says. “But that’s him.” His voice cracks and I half laugh: Of course we are compelled to state the obvious. That’s the only way to stay attached to the reality we know.
My father’s eyes are closed. His cheeks, yes, they are hollow. But even through the haze of brown that blankets my view, his skin seems luminous. His lips seem to be turned up, the hint of happiness. He looks strangely beautiful to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to my dad. “And I forgive you.”
I stand there, half waiting for him to wake up and say something. Suddenly, I need to move. “I have to go,” I say more loudly.
Ben flips the camera around. “Come home, all right?”
“I will. Tell Mom I love her.”
I click off and turn in a circle, looking at everything. The palm trees, so impossibly tall, sway like slow dancers. The mountains’ jagged peaks stare down. The sun blazes.
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