Forget Tomorrow

by Pintip Dunn

  “I don’t know, then. But you know someone who would? Laurel. She’s our resident poet, and she does all the record keeping for the community. There probably isn’t any psychic lore she hasn’t heard. After duties, you can find her at the convenience store in the log cabin.”

  “Thanks, Zed. I appreciate it.”

  The venison begins to shrink as it dries out, and he helps me move the strips closer together on the stick. It’s hard to believe that a future version of this man beats up any woman. Maybe as hard as it is to believe my own future memory.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I lick my lips. “Who was she?”

  He freezes, his hands clenching the dark strips of protein. He clearly has no doubt which “she” I’m referring to. The woman whom his future self batters.

  He puts down the venison. “I don’t know.” His voice scrapes out of his throat like flesh against broken glass. “I cared about her a great deal. I know that much. When I walked into the room, she wasn’t wearing any clothes, so I assume she was my girlfriend. But I didn’t see her face.”

  I almost jostle the venison strips myself. That’s the devastating thing about future memory. You get a snippet of your future, so multi-dimensional and vivid, it feels like real life. But there’s no context. No reason or explanation. You’re left only with a fact, something you can neither defend nor justify.

  As horrible as Beks’s and Sully’s future memories are, at least they had a reason. The robber killed Beks’s grandmother; the man raped Sully. Zed and I have nothing.

  “How do you live with it?” I whisper.

  He sucks in the air, smoke and all. “I do everything in my power to avoid Fate. I came out here. I don’t let myself get involved with women. This is probably the longest conversation I’ve had with a girl, other than Angela. And with each day that passes, I breathe a little easier because that’s one more day where my memory hasn’t come true.”

  He looks up, and my pulse leaps in recognition. On his face is an expression that is not quite faith. Faith itself is too scary, too unattainable. Optimism is reserved for the good people, the ones who go through their lives without harming anyone. But Zed’s expression is something approaching faith, something that might eventually become faith if circumstances allowed it.

  “Sometimes I see a pretty girl and I’m tempted, like anyone else,” he says. “But there’s a voice inside me and it stops me from doing anything stupid. It reminds me I have no business having a girlfriend. No business tempting Fate, not when I came all this way to escape it. What if I slip up? What if my control falters, even for a second, and I do the unthinkable?” His voice drops to a whisper. “What if I hurt someone I care about?”

  I shiver, even though my skin is warm from the smoke rising off the fire. I don’t have an answer, because the same voice springs to life inside me. And it says, in no uncertain terms: Jessa is safe now. By running away from civilization, I’ve finally gotten my guarantee. So long as I stay in Harmony, my memory cannot come true.

  Clearly I would be a fool to return to Eden City. For any reason.

  27

  “It’s going to smell like dirty feet,” Logan says after duties later that day. We’re standing in front of the log cabin. The sky rumbles, and dark clouds pile up as though they’re assembling their forces for the upcoming onslaught.

  “Why’s that?” I ask, squinting at the sky. Good thing we’re about to go inside.

  “Mikey told me everybody crowds together and bunks inside once the weather turns cold. He said last winter he woke up with somebody’s dirty sock in his mouth.”

  “Ew.”

  Bracing myself, I push the door open and walk inside. But I don’t smell feet, dirty or otherwise. Instead, the scent of sawdust greets me. Small round tables hold hand-carved chess pieces, and parchment paper hangs on the walls. A girl and a boy sit behind a long counter covered with baskets. Deer jerky, dried fruit, soap, paper, socks, underwear, dried herb packets, even a few books. Anything I could possibly want in the wilderness.

  “Come on in, Callie, Logan.” The girl waves us over. Her dark bangs and ponytail look familiar. I must’ve met her the previous night. “I’m Laurel and this is Brayden. Was there something you wanted to buy?”

  “I don’t have any credits,” I say.

  “Oh, we don’t use credits out here.” She indicates a paper with handwritten letters scrawled across it. “Or at least, not the credits you’re used to. We’re each allotted fifty points a month, and you can redeem those points for anything you see here.”

  I run my hands over a basket. Even the deer jerky? Zed and I pulled it off the drying rack a few hours ago.

  “Even that, I’m afraid,” Brayden says. Red hair falls over his forehead, and his freckles stand out like stars in the night sky. “It’s the only fair way of dividing things up.”

  My hands still. “Do you have a psychic ability?”

  His mouth twists to the side. “Oh, sorry. I hate it when I do that.”

  “You can read minds?”

  “Only if you’re having a specific thought. I can’t dig into your memories or read your emotions or anything like that.” A flush creeps up his neck, making his freckles disappear.

  “What am I thinking now?” Logan asks.

  “You want to know what we’re talking about.” The redness fades, like water seeping into the ground. “I was explaining to Callie the way we do things here. Take Laurel. She has to buy the paper like everyone else, even though one of her duties is making paper and walnut ink.”

  I pick up the parchment paper. The edges are frayed, and the page looks like it’s been crumbled into a ball and then smoothed out again. But it’s paper. “You made this? It must’ve taken forever.”

  “I have a vested interest. I’m a poet, see.” Laurel points to the sheets hanging on the walls. “Those are the poems I’ve ‘published.’ If I didn’t step up to make the paper, I’m not sure anyone would.”

  I peer at the even letters covering the page. They look almost like the words on my desk screen. No wonder they elected her as record-keeper. “I’m not actually here to buy anything,” I say. “Zed said you might be able to answer some of my questions.”

  “He did?” Her face lights up like a flint striking steel. “Did he say anything else about me?”

  “Laurel here would do anything to get a plant bracelet from Zed,” Brayden says. “I could’ve told you that even if I didn’t read minds.”

  She tosses a dried herb packet at him. “Hush. I think Zed’s sweet, that’s all. If he has any points left over at the end of the month, he always buys me paper, so I can write more poems.”

  “He likes you. Anytime you’re around, he’s thinking how nice your…um, eyes are.”

  Her smile is equal parts embarrassment and pleasure. “I think he just likes my poetry.”

  I shuffle my feet, not sure how to respond. I’m sure Zed finds Laurel attractive, but given what he confided in me, their relationship doesn’t have much of a future.

  Logan clears his throat. “We’re trying to figure out what the terms ‘the Key’ and ‘the First Incident’ mean. Have you heard of either?”

  She exchanges a glance with Brayden. “There’s a legend about a Key that helped Callahan unlock the secrets of future memory.”

  I frown. “That’s not right. Tanner Callahan received the first future memory. He didn’t invent it. I should know. I’m named after him.”

  “I’m just telling you what the legend says.” She drums her fingers on the table. “The Key held the final piece of the puzzle. Without the Key, the legend goes, future memory never would have been discovered.”

  It’s the same story, more or less, that Zed told me. But I don’t care what happened in the past. I’m interested in the future.

  I fight the sinking feeling in my stomach. What are the chances I’ll figure out the Chairwoman’s code words, when I’m not even in the same world as her? Murmuring my thanks, I turn to go.

 
“Wait,” Laurel calls. “As long as you’re here, would you mind filling out my log book? I’m keeping a record of Harmony’s inhabitants.” She reaches under the table and pulls out a bundle of parchment papers, bound together by strings of rawhide. “Here, take a feather and a pot of walnut ink.”

  We take the supplies to a round table and settle onto creaky, three-legged stools.

  “You seem disappointed,” Logan whispers, as he moves the chess pieces to one side. Our knees brush under the table. As with any time we touch, the air crackles with electricity.

  But that could just be the storm outside. My heart keeps time with the raindrops splattering the roof—furious and ferocious, an onslaught that may never stop. Will I always feel this way when he touches me? Or will my turbulent feelings someday smooth into something calm and serene?

  I peek at him, at his eyes and his mouth, at the dimples in his cheek. Quickly, before I can get lost in the sight of him, I look across the room at Laurel and Brayden. “Not disappointed. I was hoping she’d have more information than just a recounting of our history.”

  “Keep asking questions. Sooner or later, you’ll find something useful.”

  I pull my stool closer, so we can both see the book. My arm bumps into his—and my heart lurches and dances and sighs. He opens the cover, and I struggle to get ahold of myself.

  I stare at the handwritten letters marching across the parchment. The page is divided into columns. I read the categories across the top:

  Name. Date Arrived. Date Left.

  I turn the page. More columns:

  Name. Preliminary Ability. Primary Ability.

  The next page concerns future memory:

  Name. Memory. Date Memory Received. Date Memory Fulfilled. Date Memory Sent.

  My hand pauses over the page. Every other column has lines and lines of text underneath. The space underneath the column Date Memory Sent is completely empty.

  “Why are all these spaces blank?” I ask Logan.

  He shrugs. “They changed their futures by coming here. Maybe their futures changed so much that no memory is ever sent.”

  “But then, they never would’ve received the memory in the first place. Right?”

  He shakes his head slowly. He doesn’t know. I don’t, either.

  I look back at the book. “Not everyone here is escaping a bad future. Look here.” I point to the column under Date Memory Fulfilled. “Some of these memories have come true, probably the ones belonging to the psychics. Shouldn’t at least one of them have a date recorded for the date the memory was sent?” I sit back on the stool. “Unless not a single person in Harmony has yet sent a memory to themselves.”

  “How do you even send a memory to your past self? I never learned how. Did you?”

  “FuMA always said they would instruct us when the time came,” I say. “But when is that? Do they herd all of us into the FuMA building on our sixtieth birthdays? I didn’t see any groups of old people while I was there, did you?”

  He shakes his head.

  I wrinkle my forehead, thinking hard. “Laurel is the second person who linked the Key to the discovery of future memory. Past tense. I dismissed the connection because the Chairwoman was talking about searching for the Key in the future. But what if they’re talking about the same thing?” I wet my lips. “What if FuMA’s been lying to us all along?”

  He frowns. “Lying about what?”

  “What if future memory hasn’t been invented yet?” I whisper.

  “Of course future memory has been invented. You and I are living proof of that.”

  “No,” I say, my excitement growing. “We’re living proof that future memory can be received in the present. Not sent. Don’t you see? That’s why all the spaces under the column are blank. That’s why FuMA has never explained to us how to send a memory. Because they haven’t figured out how yet.”

  I stop. I look back at the page, with the column of blank spaces. And it all clicks into place. “That’s it. That’s why the two agencies are working so closely together. FuMA needs the scientists to figure out how to send memories back to the past.”

  28

  Mud squishes between my fingers, and a worm slithers around my wrist, leaving behind a wet, slimy trail.

  Instead of screaming, I grit my teeth and dump the bait in the stream, where I’ve built a funnel-shaped trap by jamming branches side-by-side. The idea is that a fish will be lured by the worm and swim inside the funnel. At the first splash of water, I’ll block the opening with a flat rock, trapping my prey inside.

  As an introduction to slaughtering animals, it’s not bad. Zed brought me here early this morning, with a knife, a bucket of worms, and a whole lot of instructions. Now that I’ve built three traps, all I have to do is wait.

  I mop my head with a bandana and settle on the muddy bank. The water ripples and a bird swoops across the sky, its wings stretched out to ride the wind. The smell of smoke cuts through the air, and I’m comforted by the fact that Zed is somewhere close by.

  If only my younger self could see me now. I remember how excited I was to take my first Manual Cooking class. Back then I never would’ve dreamed that one day I’d be catching fish in a stream rather than taking it straight out of the freezer.

  Wait a minute. Maybe she can.

  I sit straight up. Psychic powers are related to future memory. So maybe I can send a memory to my younger self. True, I don’t remember ever receiving a memory in my youth, but maybe I just suppressed it.

  Taking a deep breath, I snap a mental shot of the scene before me and picture my twelve-year-old self. Chubby cheeks. Wavy hair caught in pigtails. Nut brown skin from too much sun.

  “Send,” I whisper. “Send.”

  Nothing. Not a twinge, not a tingle.

  I open my eyes, frowning. That didn’t work too well.

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” a voice says above me. “You’re a Receiver, not a Sender. It’s not a reciprocal power.”

  My head snaps up. “You scared me, Logan! Why are you sneaking up on me?”

  “I stepped on and cracked about a dozen twigs.” He plops on the ground next to me. “Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

  Maybe I should pay closer attention. I dart a glance at the fish traps. Sure enough, the worms are missing, although no fish are trapped inside the funnels. Sighing, I grab a few more crawlers from the bucket and replenish the bait. “I was trying to send a memory to my younger self. Nobody knows how future memory works, so I hoped the Sender/Receiver distinction wouldn’t apply.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Nope.”

  I wade back to shore. Water drips down the rolled-up cuffs of my pants. I try to wipe the sweat from my forehead and end up smearing dirt on my face.

  He grins. “Maybe I should try sending an image to my younger self. Of you, just like that. Water soaking your knees, mud on your cheeks. I think he’d get a kick out of it.”

  “Don’t do that.” I laugh. “I don’t want to scare him off.”

  “I doubt anything could scare him away from you.”

  After all these years, I thought I knew all of Logan’s looks. But I’ve never seen this one. His lips are soft, his gaze heated. He sees the charred, blackened edges of my soul, and he likes me anyway. In his eyes, I am more. Smarter, prettier, braver, kinder. I want to be more. I want to be a girl worthy of his attention.

  But this is selfish of me, and I know it. If I truly care for Logan, I should want to be the type of girl he can never fall for. Soon, he’ll leave, and the best thing for him will be to forget me and move on. Yet, I want to make him proud. For Logan, I want to be perfect.

  And when he looks at me like that, I am.

  I take a shaky breath. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  He brings my hand to his lips and places a searing kiss on my palm. “I thought it was time you learned how to swim.”

  The water laps at my ears. It rises in a line all around my body, a sensation somewhere between t
ickling and vibrating. And then it engulfs me altogether as I sink into the stream…for the tenth time.

  “You’re not concentrating,” Logan says.

  I push the wet hair out of my eyes. The sun reflects off the water droplets in his hair, and he looks like a pre-Boom image of a god. The stream is chilly, but the afternoon rays beat down on my face and shoulders, keeping me from being cold.

  I wrap my arms around my waist anyway. “It’s a little hard to focus.”

  “Are you worried about Jessa?”

  “Yeah.” I skim my hands along the stream, scooping up water in my palms and letting it run through my fingers. “I know she’s safe for now, ’cause her hair’s too short. But sooner or later, they’re going to test her. And then they’ll find out about her psychic abilities and take her away.”

  “Was Mikey able to get a message to your mom through the Underground?”

  “He’s trying.” I stare at my hands, distorted through the water. “He’s not sure how clear the communication with your mom is.”

  I recline in the water again, and Logan supports my neck and back. If there weren’t so much going on in my head, this would be nice. The water sways me, and his eyes flicker down the length of my body before returning to my face.

  I lift my hand to touch him…and sink into the water once again. When I surface, he leans his forehead against mine. “You’ve got to focus, Callie.”

  His lips are right there, inches from mine, so I kiss him. As our lips spar, I push out all the images cluttering my brain. A woman in a FuMA uniform, with bright silver hair. Beks’s wild eyes as she grabs on to my ankle. My arm slicing through the air and stabbing a needle into my sister’s heart.

  I kiss Logan until these images fade. I kiss him until white noise roars in my ears and my mind is frenzied static. I kiss him until I forget everything but the feel of his bare chest and arms slick against me.

  But it’s not enough. I jump up and wrap my legs around his waist. He staggers backward, and we sink into the stream, still kissing. My hair swirls around us, mixing with the ribbons of algae, and we’re still kissing. The water creeps up our necks toward our chins, and we still…continue…to…kiss.