Julian was about ready to have a cow. Theo just looked her up and down, said, So this is the famous Lucy.
She shrugged and said yes, pretending nothing could faze her, though truth be told, she was jittery inside and regretting her bold move. It wasn’t anything about how he looked; in fact, he wasn’t what she’d imagined. He was short and stocky with thick black hair combed to the side, a round pale face, eyes so dark the pupils disappeared. Dressed in jeans and a loose cotton sweater, he could’ve been anybody just out for a stroll. Except he wasn’t: he’d knifed his boss through the neck with those same hands now tapping a smoke out of a pack and offering it to her. She accepted, grateful for something to do, though her fingers shook a little, to her embarrassment.
He lit her up with a gold Zippo. He said, Julian tells me you were dropped.
That meant dropped out of the system, as in, not tagged. She nodded, not daring to even look Julian’s way, he was so irate.
So you cannot possibly appreciate the meaning of spring, Theo said, examining her.
She was taken off balance. What do you mean?
This is the time of year servs look forward to the most, he said, because it is the end of the Service season. It means they have lived. It means they have survived. What does it mean to you?
Lucy took a drag off her cigarette, scrambling for something adequate. But of course, there was nothing that she could say. Light sweater weather, was what Eva called it.
Julian took her arm. Let’s go.
It’s all right, Theo said, and Julian’s hand fell away. I’m curious, now that she’s in front of me. You were dropped as an infant. So you remember nothing of arrival.
Sometimes it comes back. It was horrible.
Julian says there was no one to help you. You were alone in the world.
My mother took care of me. It was harder on her, I think.
That was the wrong thing to say. Theo’s eyebrows lifted in Julian’s direction. Julian opened his hands, shrugging as if to say he’d tried.
My mother, Theo repeated, tilting a smile at her. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a serv say those two words in my life.
Julian chuckled at this.
So what is your plan, Lucy? You will, what, live with your people, but love our Julian? Go to your people-school by day, but come dine with us at night?
Is that an invitation?
The cocky retort was out before she could stop it. To her relief, it seemed to amuse him. She’s a firecracker, he told Julian. When you think she’s ready, bring her. And now, perhaps we can have our meeting.
Lucy blushed at the dismissal, but she backed off a little ways, out of earshot. They talked a while, smoked a few cigarettes. Lucy wondered if they discussed her at all. They stood so easily together, heads bent in conversation, to all appearances just friends hanging out on a raw spring morning. A couple with a dog strolled past, nodding hello at the two men, oblivious to the truth about them. And about her. She was attached to Julian and Theo, in a secret bubble with them, and the feeling of that was thrilling.
Julian wasn’t as mad as she’d expected. He seemed more preoccupied than anything, turning stuff over in his head, working things out. When she prodded him, asking what Theo meant by ready, he said, Look, you heard him. You can’t go back and forth. It’s one or the other.
O.K., then. I’m ready.
No, he cautioned. You are not.
But he was the one who didn’t get it now. It was like she’d been coasting along, and suddenly her wheel nicked a rock and sent her careening off a cliff. It had been bad enough with Julian pointing out her ignorance all the time, but that encounter with Theo peeled off the last layer of defense. She felt stuck on the outside of everything: outside of the serv world, outside of the one she lived in. It became torture to lug her backpack into class, into that cacophony of girls chattering about their dates, boys slouching in loose jeans, hungover and bored and mumbling into phones, the professor shouting at everyone to settle down and turn to such-and-such page. All those bodies, all the crossed legs and tapping pencils and hushed exchanges and travel mugs of coffee spiraling steam up all around, it had given her pleasure before, a sense of purpose and yes, even belonging.
But it was all an illusion, a farce. She wasn’t one of them and never would be. The game was up, rendered meaningless by the nights with Julian, his scarred body pressed to hers, the stories he told in the dark. By that chilly spring morning with the muddy grass and birds chirping, that inquiry in the urbane Russian accent: What is your plan, Lucy?
Of course she hadn’t forgotten the warden’s caution all those years ago. But the truth was, there was no way to steer clear. Every time she stepped out of her house, she was in danger of getting picked up by some serv, even a sentry, and who knew where she might end up. Her safest option was to go back to Hull and hide out, but what kind of life would that be—the mental adoptee who screwed up Eva Hennessey’s life and then moved back in? And what would she do, work in a gift shop? No, thank you.
It’s my only choice, she argued to Julian. You keep telling me, don’t go down that street, don’t go here or there. I’m gonna be picked up at some point. So shouldn’t it be by you? At least then I’ll be safe.
When she said that, he went quiet, his mouth clamped hard like he was trying to hold in a torrent. Not of protest, but of love. It spilled from him in silence, in his stare, and then he grabbed her, crushed her close. O.K., he spoke into her hair. O.K. You’ll be fine. We’ll take care of you.
The day he took her to get tagged, he was electric with a kind of nervous, adoring delight, her hand held tightly in his. They wound through the maze of streets towards the North End, where the closest overseer was located. It felt exciting, all new and brilliant and special, as if they were on their way to get married, which they kind of were, she supposes now, seeing as he probably couldn’t love her, not truly, until she was one of them.
Meaning, until she’d been hurt like them.
Back then the overseer in the North End was lodged in an office behind a pawn shop. This is where we’re going? she asked Julian, disappointed. She’d expected mahogany furniture, a plush rug. The overseer was a stern old bitch in a crappy navy blue pantsuit. She got up from the couch, dislodging a fat Bichon Frise who growled at Lucy, baring a row of tiny teeth. There was a nametag pinned to the overseer’s lapel: Ms. R. Olnov. She looked Lucy up and down, uttered something in Nafikh. She doesn’t understand, Julian said, and then explained Lucy’s situation: arrived as an infant, never taught a word of Nafikh, never been tagged.
No tag? Ms. R. Olnov was amazed. How he get you? Bad luck, heh. Well, no serv get by so long like you. First I’ve heard. Dropped servs less than one percent, and they always get snatched up right away. Crazy how long you went. How you want the finder’s fee?
Cash is good, Julian said.
Olnov withdrew a couple hundred from a drawer, handed it over to Julian.
You get paid? Lucy asked in confusion.
Here, Julian tucked the cash into Lucy’s jeans pocket. You keep it.
Oh my God, the overseer shook her head. You a volunteer for this shit? You the dumbest skinner I ever saw.
Julian said something sharp to her in Nafikh, which earned an indifferent shrug. The overseer’s words pricked Lucy with dread. She wanted to say maybe she should think things over. But Julian was squeezing her shoulders, nuzzling her ear with his lips. It’ll be fine, he whispered. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.
Olnov dug around in a drawer and withdrew a metal box. Inside, razor-thin anklets of various sizes lay on a cloth. Lucy lowered herself onto the indicated stool, and the overseer tried several tags, criticizing the thinness of Lucy’s bony white ankle, before settling on the right size. She clicked the locking mechanism to, drew herself upright, then announced a 300 quota.
Julian snapped something in Nafikh. Olnov snapped back.
What’s going on? Lucy asked.
You been living high life, Olnov told
her. Now you get penalty.
Forget it, Julian said. You’ll never have to do them anyway.
The overseer rolled her eyes at this. She smacked her adding machine until the numbers flickered on. Lucy watched in confusion as she tapped out equations. The calculator spewed a chit that the overseer thrust at Lucy, egging her to take it already.
The bottom line read: 0.22229219984.
That’s your starting rate, Olnov said. It means you have that percentage chance of surviving your quota.
What? Lucy stared uncomprehendingly at the string of numbers.
It goes up with every Service. Jesus, haven’t you explained anything to this bimbo? Olnov demanded of Julian. You got options he can go over with you later. You can dupe, she counted on her fingers, you can aim for a boost, but that’s high-risk, or you can hunker down and do the bare minimum, which is my advice to you.
She heaved a binder off a shelf. Julian said, Put her in Joe Brynn’s bunk.
All the same to me, she said, flipping to a page lined with columns of names, many of them crossed out. She wrote in slow cursive, Lucy Belle Hennessey, followed by the date. Then she booted up the computer on her desk and laboriously entered Lucy’s profile while they waited. The room felt close, dark. The Bichon Frise kept its beady, malevolent gaze on Lucy the entire time.
The swivel chair creaked as Olnov turned back to face them. You get two meals a day, she told Lucy, but you need to work if you want more, and you also gotta pay flat bunk fee, unless loverboy here is footing that?
Julian shook his head.
I have two jobs, Lucy said. I’m a barista, and I’m also a Kelly girl.
Huh. That won’t fly in season. You need to find cleaning, delivery, messenger, kitchen, waitressing, catering, etcetera. Jobs where no one looks or gives a shit if you don’t show up. You gotta think like Mexican just come through the fence, you hear? You don’t make fee, you start compounding interest.
But I already have my mom’s loan, Lucy said.
Your mom? Is this some kinda joke?
Julian hustled Lucy outside. You know you can’t mention that, he said. Now, stop worrying, it’ll all be fine. That bunk’s a resort compared to what I was in.
What about this? Lucy held up the chit. Twenty-two percent, that’s nothing—you didn’t tell me!
If you’re gonna be a serv, he laughed, you need to brush up on your math.
He explained that a serv’s life was all about making calculations. Knowing your rate and everyone else’s, so as to gauge choices during Service. If you can fork out for a dupe, and whether you ought to. She had the whole summer to learn all that. As for the 22% she was worried about, it meant nothing. It was calculated off a quota that was moot, because Theo would buy her out soon enough.
But it doesn’t make sense, she said, lost.
He pulled a quarter from his pocket and balanced it on his thumb. He said, Think of it like tossing for heads or tails. There’s a 50% chance you’ll get heads if you throw once. But what if you have to throw 300 times? You’re bound to get a lot of tails. So that 50% chance goes down the more times you’re gonna throw. So, the survival rate for each individual service is 99.5%, but you’ve got a 300 quota. That’s where the 22% comes from.
All this was confusing and frightening, but he said it was what servs dealt with every day, it was completely normal. She had it good, he reminded her, because Theo would buy her out. All she had to do was take Services one at a time, focus on the 99.5% rate, and she’d be fine.
Things could have been way, way worse, was what she reminded herself when she got upset about the numbers. She could have been randomly picked up, forced into a bunk with strangers. She was beyond lucky she’d met Julian, and now here they were on a train riding out to Ayer to dine with Theo. The train raced along, clackety-clack, past green fields and pretty towns. Theo kept a low profile, Julian explained. The Nafikh weren’t brought to the smaller towns out here, so there was no serv presence. Never draw attention, Julian reminded her. Number one rule is—
Never divulge, she interrupted. I know.
Theo was also building a complex way up north in Maine. She might live there one day, if she played her cards right. He described the meadow, the vast views of mountains, the river coursing through acres of forest. Theo called it Eden: a paradise where servs he had freed could live in seclusion, on their own terms.
This vision seemed to fire Julian up, so she made an effort to be enthusiastic. She’d be able to come and go, she supposed, so it didn’t matter if home base was in the middle of nowhere. As for Theo’s current house, it was a modest Cape on the edge of a field. A brown horse nickered and bobbed its head at the fence. There weren’t any other houses nearby, just fields, a farm across the way. The door opened as they approached, and there Theo stood in a pair of jeans and a rumpled white button-down. His feet were bare. They had to take off their shoes in the entryway, as it turned out. Lucy did so, growing ever more self-conscious. She had holes in her socks. Her cheeks heated up under Theo’s gaze.
Congratulations, Lucy, he said. There is only one true bond, and you have recognized it at last. He touched his fingertip to her chest where the Source stirred beneath. You are with your true family, now.
She followed them down the hallway, slouching with her hands stuffed in her pockets, trying to appear uninterested and cool while her insides fluttered with excitement. All her life she’d felt adrift, no matter how much she worked not to. Walking into that house felt like coming home at last.
They led her into the kitchen, where a pine table was laid with white linens, a few bottles of open wine, a vase of lilies. Pots steamed on the iron stove. There were other servs there. Ernesto was the closest in age and tucked up to her right off the bat, peppering her with questions about her life among people. The other two were Alita and Soren, a couple who spent most of their time in Maine overseeing the contractors. Highway robbers, Theo shook his head, cursing the industry as a whole, and Lucy found it funny that someone like him was subject to such petty frustrations.
When they sat down to eat, Theo raised his glass and said, To survival. The rest of them murmured the same, and Lucy felt a thickness in her throat, a welling up of emotion for being included in this special circle. The wine flowed, conversation was lively, and Lucy’s head spun with the hot arguments that melted into laughter, the raunchy jokes, the sudden drops into grave discussion about the nature of their existence.
Is it always like this? she whispered to her new best friend Ernesto.
It helps if you’re wasted, he hissed back, and refilled her glass.
He took her out the French doors onto the back porch where they shared a joint and gazed out into the darkness. The sky filled with stars. Lucy had never been so happy in all her life. One day, she would be here all the time, she reveled drunkenly. She’d be on this porch, curled up on a chaise lounge, watching the deer slip by in the mist, and this happiness would go on forever.
The next day, she broke her lease to move into the bunk, get going on her obligations. Service season wouldn’t start for several months, but in the meantime she was to earn a salary running errands for Theo, and he didn’t want her living with people anymore.
Eva parked herself on the landing at home, unleashing a relentless barrage of criticism as Lucy carried boxes to the attic. You’ll never go back to school if you quit now! You listen to your mother, you hear me? You’re going to ruin your life!
I’m keeping the books, aren’t I? Lucy fired back. It’s just for a little while!
Julian was waiting in the car, but Eva blocked the front door. She was more robust back then, and Lucy had to push hard. They stood there, locked in a wordless huffing battle, until at last, Eva yielded, mad with disappointment and frustration.
It’ll be fine, I swear, Lucy insisted. She felt guilty, but how could she possibly explain the importance of what she was doing? She gave Eva a last hug, then ran down the steps two at a time towards Julian, towards her new life.
SHE STARTS AWAKE WITH her head slamming, mouth dried up and foul. She’s on the bed, on top of the sleeping bag, she realizes. And it’s fucking freezing. A blurry memory comes of shifting the thermostat lever all the way left, a gesture for the arrival, drunken pity. She pushes herself up off the bed and pads clumsily to the wall, readjusts the heat. Leans there, gasping, her stomach sloshing acid and pumping it up her throat.
“Anghhh!” the arrival cries pitifully. The sound that woke her.
“Just a minute,” she calls.
The heat comes on, ticking through the metal baseboard vents. She didn’t eat, she remembers now. Just a few crackers and cheddar. The clock shows it’s past four a.m., which means she won’t sleep again. She goes to the bathroom and gulps water from the tap, downs four Advils.
“Annnghhhhh!”
She washes her face. The fluorescent bulbs over the mirror are nasty to her already wrecked, flushed skin: even with her serv constitution, she’s too old for that kind of drinking. It is not a new realization.
The arrival’s tucked himself into the corner of the crate with his knees drawn up to his chest. He squints at the light pouring in from the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. The air reeks of urine and feces, the pull-up no match for the body’s explosions. She gags at the lumpy liquid pooling on the mat. He starts crying, feeling at his nose with both hands, becoming aware of the stench. His legs move weakly; he tries to back farther away, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Hadj,” she says, tugging on the mat. Move. She loathes this. She loathes all of it. The thin, scrabbling arms and legs. The too-big head lolling on the stick-figure body. His legs swipe through his body’s own waste. Pinpricks spatter her cheek. “Goddammit,” she cries. She shoves the filthy mat to one side and drags him out, hissing her disgust. His legs are filthy and wet. He hugs himself, his big blue eyes fixed on her, exuding terror.
Guilt lances her. “It’s not your fault,” she mutters. “Don’t worry about it.”
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