An Absolutely Remarkable Thing

by Hank Green

  That I not die.

  That I not take any pictures of his disembodied hand.

  With my brain at 25 percent power, all I really wanted was to thank Carl, or Carl’s hand. I reached out to it, and it approached me. It walked on all fives, each finger thudding on the thin carpet covering the wooden floor.

  “Thanks for”—I felt a little silly talking to it but kept going anyway—“uh, everything, I guess. But mostly, just now, for literally taking a bullet for me. I guess.”

  The hand bowed. I mean, maybe. It flattened itself against the floor a bit and then stood back up.

  “Uh, can you understand me?”

  Nothing happened.

  “One tap for yes, two taps for no. Can you understand me?”

  Two taps.

  “WHAT?!” I literally screamed. The hand stood there in front of me, looking rather smug. “Are you messing with me? Did you just make a fucking joke?!”

  Nothing.

  “OK, so you can see me and apparently hear me and possibly understand me and also apparently mock me. Correct?”

  Nothing.

  “Can I touch you?”

  Nothing.

  I know only “yes” means “yes,” but it was a robot hand in my apartment and it’s not like I had invited it over.

  I reached out to it, to feel it, and it let me. I touched it. It felt different now. Not like touching Carl, that weird way it left all the heat in my hand. It just felt hard and very, very slightly warm. Carl also had always been completely immobile, but the hand was so clearly alive. Even when it wasn’t moving, it had movement in it. It had life to it. Compared to the immobile statue that was Carl, it felt so much more complex and carefully crafted. Every joint as supple and nimble as my own hands.

  We don’t generally look down at a human hand sliding over a keyboard or stroking a pet or punching buttons on a remote control and think, What a marvel! but it truly is. Humans have yet to create something so delicate and intricate as our own hands. But Carl’s hand was every bit as careful and nimble as my own, and a great deal stronger, it would seem.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and Carl skittered away again.

  “I’m just calling Andy,” I said. “You know Andy, right?”

  So I punched him, number two on my speed dial after Robin these days. The phone rang once before noise exploded in my ears. I threw my phone across the room, screaming. Once it wasn’t right up against my ear, I could hear it clearly.

  . . . ship on my way to Mars, on a collision course. I am a satellite, I’m out of control. I am a sex machine ready to reload like an atom bomb about to oh oh oh oh oh explode . . .

  Queen, “Don’t Stop Me Now.”

  “You’re blocking me!” I accused the hand, panting from my freak-out.

  Nothing.

  “Look, I don’t know what you want and I’m not going to know unless you tell me.”

  Nothing.

  I grabbed my computer off the coffee table and sat on the floor with it a foot away from where the hand had taken residence. The Wi-Fi signal was strong, but every website timed out.

  “Well, what am I supposed to do then!”

  As you might have expected by this point, nothing.

  “Can I tell anybody?”

  Two taps.

  “Was that an actual response?”

  One tap.

  “THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING!”

  Nothing.

  “Are you from outer space?”

  Nothing.

  “Have you heard about the Carls in St. Petersburg and São Paulo?”

  Nothing.

  “Can I tell anyone you’re here?”

  Two taps.

  “Can I tell anyone you saved me?”

  Two taps.

  “Can I at least tell Robin?”

  Two taps.

  “Would you stop me if I tried to tell someone?”

  Nothing.

  I must have asked the hand a thousand questions and the only information I got out of it was that I was not, under any circumstances, to share that it had visited me. No one could know; no one could see it. I felt, of course, tremendously obliged to keep this promise because if the Carls did have some kind of massive plan, I sure didn’t want to mess it up—also because I had built a whole life around believing the Carls were good—also because of the whole life-debt thing.

  But that also meant not telling anyone that I had been shot at. This line of inquiry, of course, led to no response. The hand did not appear to be concerned about my safety. Possibly, it thought it could guarantee it. How was I supposed to tell anyone that I’d been shot at without breaking this promise?

  Also, what was I going to say to the superintendent about the blown-out doors in my bedroom? And how was I supposed to clean up the rest of the glass without getting shot at again? That is not a normal thought, but it was a thought I had. Maybe there were bigger concerns.

  As time somehow kept moving, the various sizes of various concerns were starting to seem less relevant. All my worries, from terrorist attacks to almost dying to whether I should clean the glass on my floor, somehow all seemed the same size. I realized I was crashing down from my high. My body had been in fight-or-flight mode for at least an hour, and exhaustion was kicking in hard. I reached out to the hand and wrapped my hand around its massive index finger.

  “Why did you save me?” I asked the hand.

  It didn’t do anything.

  “OK, I won’t tell anyone.” It looked to me as if maybe, just a tiny bit, it relaxed. Without thinking, I scooched toward the hand and curled myself around it, and it settled a bit into my embrace. I was asleep in seconds.

  * * *

  —

  I don’t want to have real dreams, so I just wander the city all night. The whole world is waiting for the key, searching fruitlessly even though I’m the only one who can get it. But I still haven’t let Miranda or Maya share what we know. We’re lying to the whole world. My fear and my mood have followed me into the Dream. I walk into an arcade, like from the eighties. There are tons of stand-up video games and pinball machines.

  The puzzle sequence in here must be delicious. I spot a quarter on one of the machines—that’s probably where the sequence begins—but I don’t play. I go to the girls’ bathroom. It’s dirty and there are local band posters all over the wall, but none of them make any sense. My brain can’t turn the letters into words. This tends to be the case when you get off track. It’s a sign that you aren’t in an important part of the puzzle. It’s like the Carls couldn’t be bothered to create the detail of every little spot.

  I go into the dirty stall and sit on the toilet and cry until I wake up.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I woke to distant shouts.

  Reality crashed into me. Someone bombed Carls all over the world. Someone tried to kill me. They looked into the scope of their rifle, saw me, and pulled the trigger. And Carl’s hand, it was here, and it saved me. And where was it? I shot up off the floor and searched every inch of my living room and kitchen. Then I stood outside of my bedroom door, but I couldn’t make myself go in. I gave up. I never went into either of the bedrooms again. In my heart, I think I knew the hand had departed as sneakily as it arrived.

  I was still in my pajamas, which was fine, but my feet were cold. Some clothes were in the dryer and I grabbed the first socks I could make a pair out of. I remember very specifically that they were Purrletariat merch, Maya’s comic. Soon, each of my ankles sported an adorably illustrated cat saying, “Eat the Rich, Steve.”

  I could hear people shouting in the street below, but again, I couldn’t go look out the window, so I turned on the news.

  The news media is almost always in a bizarre frantic resting state. During these rests it tries to make distant and vague threats seem up
close and menacing in order to give you some reason to watch their advertisements. Here’s a hint: It’s not really “news” until they stop running ads. There were no ads this morning. The July 13 attacks were real news and everyone knew it. The fact that America was spared (though you, unlike anyone back then, now know that there was a planned attack, it was simply thwarted—well, I guess not simply thwarted) created excellent opportunities for rampant, useless, baseless speculation.

  Occasionally they would show images of 23rd Street, which was packed with people whom the police were incapable of controlling. Most of the people in the crowd came to show that the world stood in solidarity with Nigeria, Russia, Indonesia, and Brazil. Others were protesting the continued threat Carl made. Analysts on television were saying terrifying things about a strategy terrorists sometimes used: Do something inflammatory and then, once the inevitable crowd formed, strike again with much greater impact. Since America hadn’t been part of the attack, and Americans are incapable of considering that evil people would coordinate a massive attack and leave us out of it, everyone assumed something else was coming.

  As I watched the news, a thought leaked into my mind. The world was tearing itself apart; people were dying. The noise in the street threatened to become a riot if a bunch of Defenders showed up. It was easy for me to blame all this on Peter and people like him. But ultimately, wasn’t the source of it all Carl? Wouldn’t those people still be alive if Carl hadn’t showed up? Wasn’t I as biased and irrational as the Defenders? Clinging to my unquestionable belief that Carl was here to bind us together, not to divide or destroy us? Seeing only the evidence that confirmed my point of view and not the evidence, right here in front of my eyes, that Carl was undeniably disruptive?

  I realized that there was no way for that not to be in my brain in my next TV interview, though certainly I wouldn’t mention it. And that’s when I realized that I wasn’t supposed to be watching the news about Carls; I was supposed to be on the news about Carls. And then I panicked a bit. Why hadn’t anyone called me?!

  I grabbed my phone and saw a fairly simple explanation: It was off. I tried turning it on . . . out of batteries. Oh god! Robin was probably having a fit. EVERYONE was probably having a fit! Why wasn’t anyone at my house? And worse, both my chargers and my other phone were in my freaking bedroom. OK, computer then. At the very least I had to tell everyone I was OK.

  I popped open my laptop. It seemed that my connection to the outside world had been restored. As expected, I had about five hundred new emails—TV producers, Robin, Andy, Miranda, Maya, parents, brother, everyone. Notifications from the Som were out of hand.

  Here’s what was not expected: I had replied to many of the emails.

  That was confusing enough that I didn’t understand it at first. I read the email Miranda had sent, and then I read my reply, and I tried to figure out who it was from. It sounded like me, though it wasn’t complicated, basically just letting her know I was OK and would need some time before I did anything publicly.

  My first thought was that Robin had, in a panic, impersonated me. Then I saw a whole conversation I’d had with him about why I wasn’t answering texts and that I needed time to process and would be in touch soon. I’d told him to start a list of people interested in talking to me and it would be late morning before I could take any interviews. Andy’s insistence that we make a video was responded to similarly. A message to my parents and brother told them not to worry and that I was safe and being looked after and the whole thing was just so terrible and I would call soon and thank you for worrying about me, but again, I was fine.

  There was no response to Maya’s email.

  It is possible—I do not think this is what happened, but it is possible—that I woke up several times and answered those emails and then fell asleep between sessions (they were spread out over several hours) and was experiencing some kind of post-traumatic amnesia. I certainly would not have questioned the emails’ validity if I had been any of the recipients, and if I had been awake, I probably would have sent extremely similar emails. But I had not been awake.

  I read all of my sent and received messages and found no hint as to their origin. I did my best to imagine Carl’s hand curled over my phone or computer typing out emails, but I figured I couldn’t dust for fingerprints or anything. In the end (and until just now, actually), I just pretended I’d sent the messages. I was suddenly living a number of rather large lies, and this one seemed pretty inconsequential. I was numb to oddity. I emailed Andy telling him I wanted to do a shoot down in the street in the next few hours and told Robin to start scheduling for Skype-ins starting at noon and ending at four and that things would be weird but he had to just simply not ask any questions. Also, could he bring me something TV-worthy from Top Shop and an iPhone charger?

  Having an assistant is awesome for when you are terrified to go into your own bedroom because of last night’s attempted murder!

  Before showering I finally tweeted something:

  @AprilMaybeNot: Sick with sadness. I have misplaced my hope. Let’s be together today, and remember our humanity not our brutality.

  And then immediately after:

  @AprilMaybeNot: Just a few people did this. In a world of eight billion. I am trying so hard to remember how few of us are truly evil.

  I don’t think I actually felt any of those ways, but it seemed on-brand. Those seemed like the kinds of things April May would tweet. In reality, I felt numb and I wanted to work. I wanted to write and talk and figure out how the Defenders were responding and start up the counterarguments immediately, even if I was finally questioning my own faith that the Carls were only here to help us. It was easier to act than doubt.

  The police and government, at that point, were still searching for information on several disconnected bombers, we had no real information, and so the vacuum was being filled by lies, guesses, and assumptions. At least I refused to give in to that impulse.

  Humans are terrible at believing reality. The things I tweeted about July 13 were absolutely true. These attacks were the work of such a minuscule number of people, a number so small as to be inconsequential. And the number of people hurt and killed, on a global scale, wasn’t a huge deal either. More people died in car accidents on July 13 than in those bombings. But these are things you can’t really say in the face of tragedy.

  We are irrational beings, easy to manipulate if you’re willing to do whatever it takes. That’s exactly how terrorists convince themselves that murder is worthwhile. And the wound it left, it was larger than those lives lost; it was a wound we would all have to live with forever. The purity of my feelings for Carl was gone and I would never get it back.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Here’s a weird thing. You remember July 13, and I sure hope you remember September 11, even if you weren’t alive. But we’ve pretty much all forgotten June 28. June 28, 1914, to be exact, probably the weirdest day in recorded history. Here’s what happened.

  The guy who’s next in line to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which was this huge politically important country (second largest in Europe by size, third by population), was visiting Sarajevo, which is now in Bosnia but was then part of that massive empire. A lot of folks living there didn’t like the Austro-Hungarians for complicated reasons that we don’t need to get into.

  A group of young guys have decided they want to kill this prince, who has, in his wisdom and bravery, prepublished the route he’s going to be taking through Sarajevo in a literal open-topped car (note to world leaders: Stop doing this). These twenty men line up at various places along the published route with various devices and strategies for assassination. One of them jumps the gun a little bit and runs out of the crowd with a small bomb. He throws it at the prince, but the bomb doesn’t detonate for several seconds, so it ends up exploding near a different car and injuring several people but not killing anyone.

  Everyone disperses, the he
ir to the throne gets swept to safety, and none of the other would-be assassins get to try their hand at assassination.

  That’s a weird day already, right? Well, it gets much weirder.

  The parade, of course, is called off and the prince is safe. But then he decides, in his wisdom and bravery, that he wants to go visit the people injured in the bombing at the hospital. The driver takes what is likely to be the worst wrong turn in history and then, realizing it, puts the car in reverse. It’s 1914 and cars are very new and glitchy, so the car stalls in front of a deli where one of the foiled assassins, Gavrilo Princip, just happens to be standing.

  Princip steps forward, pulls out his gun, and fires two shots. One hits the prince, who by now I hope you’ve figured out is Archduke Franz Ferdinand, in the neck. The other hits his wife, Sophie, in the belly, killing her quickly.

  An aide, trying to hold closed the hole in the neck of his prince, asks him if he’s in pain. The archduke says, “It is nothing.” He repeats this—“It is nothing . . . It is nothing . . .”—over and over until he falls unconscious and then dies.

  It was not nothing. The assassination of Franz Ferdinand touched off a cascade of terrible decisions and reckless diplomacy that ended in the deaths of more than sixteen million people.

  Keep that in mind if it seems like the following events are improbable. Sometimes, weird things happen that change the course of history . . . and apparently they happen to me.

  * * *

  —

  Andy looked like he’d slept a good thirteen minutes. He was untidy and quiet, and I could definitely smell him as he adjusted my lapel mic.

  “You OK, dude?”

  He looked at me like he was just realizing I was there before moving his eyes back to his work. “Yeah, fine. I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think you’re fine.”

  He snapped out of it a bit then. “Fuck, April, of course I’m not fine. What the hell are we doing?” He didn’t sound agitated. He sounded tired.