My father would be so proud of Patrick right now.
“Fascinating,” the reporter says, typing notes furiously on her tablet. “So how does trypnosis work, exactly?”
I can recite the answer to this question in my sleep. When my dad was alive, Patrick would often come over for dinner, and they would discuss trypnosis for hours on end. It had been hurtful then, watching my father and my best friend bond over something I didn’t fully comprehend, but today I’d give anything to have one of those nights back.
“Trypnosis is a combination of hypnosis techniques, created by three distinct computer-generated tools, which make up the Equip components,” Patrick responds. “The visor has microlasers embedded in the lenses, which tap into the cerebral cortex and create an imbalance of brain-cell activity. The earbuds utilize aural symphonics, like humming sounds and voice triggers, to lull the brain into an even deeper level of consciousness. Lastly, there are two raised pieces of plastic on the inside of the wristband that apply pressure to nerve endings connected to the meridian centers of the body.”
Patrick pauses to clear his throat and then steals a happy glance at me. In this moment, everything about him is so self-assured, and so . . . adult. Sometimes I wish I could leap forward with him and go straight to being in control of my own life.
“When all of these elements, including the app for Elusion, are engaged, trypnosis is achieved. At the risk of sounding immodest,” he continues, “it is one of the greatest achievements in science and technology. The consumer can be transported to a toxin- and stress- free alternate reality in the safety of their own mind.”
“Safety? How can you say that with a straight face?” says a loud, booming voice from the center of the auditorium. I spin around in my seat to see a bespeckled, auburn-haired teenage girl in a vintage army jacket, standing in a fighting stance and holding clenched fists at her sides.
Ugh. Avery Leavenworth.
“What do you have to say about Elusion addiction? It’s a big problem here in Detroit, especially with kids my age,” she barks. “I know my viewers would love to hear how you plan on addressing that. Although first you’d have to admit that your product is more like heroin than a great achievement in science, right?”
Self-righteous student activist and star of the famously stupid vlog AveryTruStory, she is impossible to miss at school because she’s always wrapped up in some kind of campus uprising. How did she even get in here? Did she really get legitimate press access? That never would have happened if Dad were around. He was very strict about which media outlets were allowed to cover his conferences. Apparently, Patrick is running the show a bit more loosely.
“Miss Leavenworth, Elusion is not a drug, and medical addiction isn’t possible,” Patrick says calmly. “If it was, then the CIT wouldn’t have approved it, now would it?”
“You’re screwing with people’s brain chemistry! You said so yourself!” Avery shouts, refusing to back down. “My sources tell me that the Elusion system releases levels of serotonin and dopamine so high it’s like the user is totally strung out.”
“No!” I yell. “You’re wrong!”
There’s a faint murmur in the audience.
Oh. My. God. Did I just jump out of my seat and scream that out loud?
I peer toward the stage. Patrick grins and nods toward someone beside him. Before I know it, a man dressed in black approaches me and clips a mike to my shirt collar. I shoot Patrick a discouraging look, hoping that he’ll step in and carry on this confrontation with Avery. But he just bows his head and smirks.
He’s giving me the floor. In front of thousands of reporters. On a day where I look like something stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe.
“The serotonin and dopamine aren’t released,” I say, my words now reverberating throughout the entire auditorium. “That makes it sound like they’re coming from another source, which they’re not. All Elusion does is stimulate the body’s production of certain chemicals that are already in the brain.”
Avery crosses her arms over her chest and glowers at me like I just slapped her face, but that doesn’t deter me at all. In fact, it motivates me to press on.
“The sensors in the visor and the wristband both have safety controls that are monitored by a special server that keeps tabs on every single Equip. If the levels are too high, the signal is cut off. End of story.”
Patrick is practically beaming with approval when the audience claps for me. “I’ll take one more question. Yes, you in the green sweater.”
I sigh in relief as I unclip my mike and give it back to an Orexis staff member. I catch sight of Avery out of the corner of my eye. She’s being escorted toward the auditorium doors by two burly guards. Her mike has obviously been turned off, but her mouth is still moving and her face is red with rage. I think about following Avery outside and giving her an even bigger piece of my mind. How dare she throw accusations at Patrick like that, and give Dad’s prized work a bad name?
But before I can grab my bag or come up with any insults to sling, my tablet buzzes. I pull my tab from my back pocket and unfold it. A note has popped up on the screen.
Damn. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for yet another commitment, and Patrick is fielding a scandalous question about Elusion’s rising “virtual hookup” rate, which I definitely want to hear about. I’ve never had one of my own, but at school the rumor is that making out with someone in an Escape is way more intense than the real thing. Still, as much as I want to listen to all the details, I don’t have the heart to keep Mom waiting. I’m going to have to sneak away and text Patrick why I had to leave.
For a moment, I feel bad that I won’t be able to tell him in person what a fantastic job he did today, but from the adoring looks he’s receiving from everyone in the room, I figure he’ll get to hear it.
Maybe even a few thousand times.
Where is she?
I’m pacing inside the lobby of Morton & Wexley, Detroit’s largest and most prestigious depository. Every thirty seconds I look at the automatic doors, hoping to see Mom walk through them. I barely made it here on time—there were more Traxx delays, of course—but when I arrived, the clients’ lounge was filled with people who were hooked up to their Equips, zip-tripping in Elusion, and my mother was nowhere in sight. I scoped out the clerk area to see if the meeting had already started, but all the employees were either on their tablets or conducting business with their customers in the confines of their glass-walled cubicles.
I check my watch. I have been waiting for nearly a half hour, and the building is about to close down. I tap on my tablet to see if I can get a phone signal, but the reception is completely blocked, probably because the depositories in this sector are steel-enforced and take strict security measures so that people can’t coordinate a heist from inside the building with the help of their handheld devices.
After another minute ticks by, I throw up my hands in frustration and perch myself on the last empty chair, which looks more like a metallic sculpture than a place to rest. The Morton & Wexley waiting room is decorated in deep jewel tones and bathed in streams of light emanating from the rectangular, exposed-fluorescent-bulb chandeliers. A black uniformed maintenance man stands in the corner, ready to wipe the Florapetro grime off the marble tiled floors whenever a customer enters.
I drum my fingers impatiently against the curled armrest, praying that nothing bad has happened to my mom. Expecting the worst in a situation like this is pretty understandable, given what we’ve both been through, but I can’t afford to latch on to those kind of negative thoughts. Not here anyway.
“Ms. Welch?” A bald-headed man with a mustache is now standing in front of me, wearing a badge that reads Mr. Xavier Burton. “Are you and your mother ready to recover your father’s items?”
“I need a few more minutes, please. My mom still isn’t here.”
When he inspects his watch, his lips press together in a way that is all too familiar. My English teacher, Mrs. Thackeroy, h
as the same annoyed expression on her face when I’m late to her class, which is pretty often, considering that it’s the first one of the day. With Mom at home to look after, I never seem to make it out of the house on time in the morning.
“We’re only open for another ten minutes. You’ll have to come back tomorrow if she doesn’t arrive by then,” Mr. Burton says, straightening his suit jacket with a harsh tug at the sleeves.
“Is there any way I could claim the contents of the security box myself?” I ask.
“No, I’m afraid not. The ledger states that pursuant to his will, Mr. Welch’s wife becomes the principal owner of the contents. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” I give him a somewhat insincere, halfhearted smile.
Mr. Burton issues me a curt nod and ducks behind a glass cubicle with a ribbon-like image scrolling around the middle with the words “Assistant Manager” in square-block digital lettering, and an update of the stock market.
I look at my watch again. In seven minutes, the staff of Morton & Wexley is going to kick me to the curb. True, Mom and I could always come back another day, but then we’d have to spend more sleepless nights wondering what was so important to my father that he kept it locked up here, without anyone else knowing until his lawyer executed his will.
Did Dad have some kind of dark secret? If he did, it would definitely make dealing with his loss even more unbearable, especially for my mother.
“Hey, Ree.”
Patrick is walking toward me, a sympathetic smile on his face. I’m so happy and surprised to see him I hop off my seat and give him a big hug.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my head pressed against his chest.
“Just wanted to see if you needed any help. I tried calling, but then I remembered my dad and all of the security rules at his trust company.” He pulls back a little as he grabs hold of my hands. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“No, not at all,” I say, grinning. “But don’t you have stuff you need to do? What about the conference?”
“Once I left the stage, my job was over.”
“Yeah, right,” I say with a laugh. I know he’s just saying that to make me feel better, and I appreciate it. “I don’t know how you managed to sneak away, but you just scored major best-friend points for showing up here.”
“Good.” Patrick peers around the lobby as he lowers his voice. “How’s your mom handling it all?”
“No idea. She hasn’t even shown up yet. And of course, I can’t call her in here . . .” I shrug, frustrated.
“Did you ask the manager to use their emergency phone line?”
“I don’t want to go through all that,” I reply. “Maybe she got stuck on the Traxx or something. There’s construction everywhere.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s something simple like that.”
“Or maybe she just blew me off. It wouldn’t be the first time,” I say, my voice tinged with irritation.
It isn’t fair of me to be angry. Mom is doing the best she can.
Patrick squeezes my hands gently. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
“How? This place is about to shut down for the day and I’m not authorized to receive my own father’s . . .” I swallow hard and slip my hands away from Patrick’s. “Maybe we should just leave and forget this whole thing.”
“Give me a second. I’m going to talk to the manager,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t even bother. He has a Mrs. Thackeroy attitude.”
“I have no clue what that means, so I’m going to talk to him anyway.” Patrick gives my hand a quick squeeze before letting go. “Be right back.”
I keep my gaze trained on him as he wanders into the clerks’ area, waving at Mr. Burton through the glass door of his cubicle. The man’s face lights up when he recognizes that Patrick, Detroit’s most famous resident, is standing in front of him. Patrick shakes the assistant manager’s hand and chats with him like he has known the guy for years. It takes less than a minute for Mr. Burton to nod his head in affirmation and begin finger-pounding the screen of his tablet. Patrick looks out at me and gives me a thumbs-up.
It’s official. Patrick has just advanced to hero status.
Once Mr. Burton and Patrick emerge from the glass cubicle, an announcement sounds over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentleman, Morton and Wexley will be closing in five minutes, so please complete your transactions. Thank you for your business.”
I expect Mr. Burton to quicken his step, since he was so conscious of the time, but his stride is just as leisurely as Patrick’s, who doesn’t even try to hide his self-satisfied grin.
“Miss Welch, I’ll take you to security block G now,” the assistant manager says as he gestures toward a corridor off to the right, which leads to a large elevator bank.
“But aren’t you closing up?” I ask.
“That shouldn’t concern you, Ms. Welch.” Mr. Burton pats me on the hand. “We are more than delighted to extend you and your family every courtesy.”
I glance at Patrick, who just smiles at me innocently and shrugs.
What the hell did he do?
“Thank you, Mr. Burton. That is very nice of you.”
As we follow Mr. Burton toward a foyer filled with industrial-size elevator, Patrick and I nudge each other playfully. The assistant manager halts in front of the elevator marked SBG and pushes a button labeled 28. Once the doors whoosh open, Patrick and I file in behind Mr. Burton.
“This block is subterranean, so it takes a little while to descend. Are either of you claustrophobic?” the man asks.
I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”
“Neither am I,” replies Patrick.
“Good. Then enjoy the ride,” Mr. Burton says.
Patrick waits a minute before pulling his tab out of his interior suit-jacket pocket and typing on it. He’s probably trying to get some work done; he’s such an overachiever. But then I feel my rear pocket vibrating. I reach back and pull out my tab, noticing I have an IM.
At first, I’m a little bewildered—how can I be receiving a message inside the depository? But then I remember just how advanced Patrick’s hacking skills are. He probably found some kind of back door in their security system and glommed onto an admin network, making a signal available to both of us while we’re in the elevator.
I drag my thumb and pointer finger across the screen so I can zoom in and read his note.
How awesome am I? Go on tell me, I can take it. ;-)
When I laugh out loud, Mr. Burton cranes his neck and stares at me like I’m nuts. I mutter “sorry” under my breath, and thankfully he spins back around.
I quickly type a message back to Patrick.
Your awesomeness can’t be measured. What did you say to him?!?!
I said you were my illegitimate sister.
Ha-ha, very funny. Now tell me or I’ll drop-kick you.
I love it when you make empty threats.
TELL. ME!
Fine! I promised I’d open a huge account here if he gave you access to your dad’s box.
My cheeks flush. Since Dad’s accident, Patrick has been making grand gestures like this for me, and each time he does, I feel a little more embarrassed. His intentions are good, no doubt about that, but as the months rack up, I just . . . I just can’t help but feel like I owe him a million and one favors—and have no way of paying him back.
Thank you. For everything.
Thank you–for coming to Orexis today. I know that couldn’t have been easy.
Well, you were GREAT! Did you create that demo?
Me and my nerd army. We are invincible.
Can’t say the same for Avery. ;-) She had a lot of nerve, spreading lies like that. What an attention whore!!!
You totally shot her down! I can’t believe he missed it.
A breath catches in my throat, but luckily it only hurts for a second.
I know. My dad would have been really pro
ud of how I remembered all that stuff about Elusion. You were his protégé and all :-p
The elevator comes to such a soft stop that I barely even feel it. When the doors slide open, Mr. Burton exits and waves at Patrick and me.
“Follow me, please,” he says.
We tuck our tabs away, and Patrick puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Obviously, he senses the sudden tension that has taken hold of me once we walk out of the elevator and into a long, narrow corridor that looks like it belongs in a morgue. The dimly lit hallway extends in both directions for what seems like a thousand yards, and there are multiple sets of steep metal staircases leading to other floors filled with windowless rooms.
“Don’t worry, I’m right here,” he whispers.
I take Patrick’s hand, locking fingers with him. “I’m fine,” I lie.
Mr. Burton guides us to the left and ahead a few feet before pausing in front of a set of stairs and offering me an orange passcard.
“Your father’s security box is waiting for you in chamber twenty-eight. It’s on the middle level and you’ll have complete privacy there. Feel free to take your time. I’ll wait to escort you back up to the main floor when you’re done,” he says.
“Thank you, Mr. Burton,” I say.
Patrick and I walk up the steps to chamber 28, still hand in hand. I let go to swipe the passcard in front of the code reader, and the door whooshes upward, barely giving us enough time to enter before swooshing back down again, closing us inside. Inside is a large, brightly lit, gray cement room with a tall aluminum table surrounded by several black high-backed stools. On the table is a square metallic box affixed with an electronic lock.
I shoot Patrick a nervous glance, but his calmness doesn’t waver at all. I hate to admit this, but I’m actually kind of glad that my best friend is here right now instead of my mom.
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