by Kate Breuer
With dread I remember the couple who lived next door when we moved into our first apartment. Most matched couples in the city either pretend they are in love or fall in love out of habit and convenience. The Bartons made no such effort. They didn’t pretend to be in love or try and hide their extramarital relationships.
I had a bad feeling about it back then and tried to talk to them about being more discreet. I remember them sitting on the couch and explaining that life is too short to spend it with the wrong person, even if you liked them.
Unfortunately, I had been right.
After a few months, three men visited their place, and the Bartons were never seen again. The new neighbors told us they had moved away, but I am one hundred percent sure that’s not true.
This, more than anything, made Dale and me pretend we were like any other happy couple. We were sure to spread the news about trying to have a baby, though it was far from true. Dale and I have never kissed, let alone had sex.
A few months later, I was pregnant. I couldn’t believe it. At that point, I hadn’t had sex with anyone for over a year. Willow was impossible.
When I first told Dale, he was sure I had cheated on him—well, if one can cheat in a fake relationship. I knew he thought I was lying when I denied it. It took me forever to convince him I would never endanger either of us like that.
To this day, I’m not entirely sure he believed me. Arguments like this always make me question how much he trusts me.
Rain starts drumming against our small window. There. Even the weather is gloomy. How can I not be?
I’ve been sitting still, hugging my knees with my head on my arms for far too long. I look up and find Dale looking at me.
“Chase? You know I just want to keep you and Willow safe, right?”
I have never come close to falling in love with Dale, but he’s been my friend ever since I first set foot in the orphanage. He looked out for me back then, and all he is trying to do now is the same.
I nod slowly and chew my lip. The sadness in his voice makes my insides turn, and my anger is pushed away. Instead, I feel guilty for hurting him more than I meant. I want to hold him tight and convince him I’m sorry. I don’t know how to begin, but he seems to understand because he pulls me into a hug and holds me.
“I’m worried, too,” he whispers. “I’m afraid they’ll figure out you know about Willow’s immaculate conception if you don’t pretend everything is okay.”
I’m surprised by his confession, but it comforts me. We sit in silence for a long time, his arm around my shoulders, my knees hugged close to my body.
Friday I’ll take Willow to her appointment, and nothing I say or do will be able to change that.
I crawl into bed hours later and hug Willow extra tight in a feeble attempt to shield her from whatever is awaiting us in two days.
“I love you, pumpkin. Please, never forget that,” I whisper more to myself than my sleeping daughter. I push a strand of hair from her face and give her a kiss on the forehead.
When I finally fall asleep, my dreams are full of scrubs, weird instruments, and frightened-looking children in lab cages.
2
Nate
I’ve only been here for a couple of minutes, and I’m already bored. Fuck.
I’m sitting in the back row of the assembly hall. Chair balancing on two legs. Its back resting against the wall. I look around the room hoping to find something to distract me until this ordeal is over.
I’m here to listen to the mayor—my dear father. Prius Ashcroft, the man in charge of this city, stands in front of his audience with intimidating confidence. Black-rimmed glasses, perfectly parted gray hair, broad shoulders. It impresses me just how upright a person can stand—and I’ve spent years watching security officers of all ranks.
Behind my father, the wall is covered in boring graphs and spreadsheets, symbols, and numbers. I am vaguely aware my father is giving a presentation about population statistics, but I rarely pay attention during any of these meetings. My father thinks I should be here. But I can’t make myself care.
After years of listening to my father talk, it still annoys me to admit he is rather good at it—a little too good for my taste. It is way too easy for him to convince people he is right.
I watch the six council members in the first two rows, a man and woman from each of the three Circles. They hang on my father’s every word and nod their agreement like well-behaved school children.
Behind them sit four members of PCR, the city’s security company, which I unfortunately work for.
Protecting City and Region. Stupid name.
One of them is Derec, my least favorite person in a room filled with people I, at best, don’t care about. His sharp features are clenched. I am happy to see he is as bored as I am, though he fights hard to keep up appearances. Vanilla-blond stubbles on his head and yellow eyebrows contrast awfully with his dark skin and black eyes.
When I first started PCR training, Derec wasn’t the unit leader yet. He was another recruit like me. Didn’t take long for us to hate each other, though. The moment he laid eyes on me, he said I was only there because my dad pulled some strings. Before we could tear each other to pieces, a broad-shouldered blond with a topknot stepped in—Zeke. Zeke and I have been friends ever since. My father caught on and had PCR partner us together.
I focus on a man behind Derec to keep myself from getting up and punching him for no reason other than existing. Fuck, just looking at the man makes me clench my fists.
The man behind him is in his midfifties. I have never talked to him, but I know he is the owner of PCR—which makes him almost as powerful as my father. I put my hands behind my head, and my chair falls over. I manage to catch it, but my chair gives a loud thump as the legs hit the concrete floor.
Shit.
My father’s voice falters. He throws me the briefest judgmental glance before continuing. I shrug and lean my chair back again.
A few chairs in front of me, Zeke’s wife, Isabel, writes notes on everything my father says, her tight blonde bun moving frantically side to side. Leaned over her tablet, she looks perfect—as always—in her tight, white dress.
There’s really nothing here to keep me occupied. The room is large enough for at least a hundred people. I wish it was bigger. More distance between me and the people in the front.
I wonder for a moment if I could get away with slipping out of the room. There are enough PCR members here to keep my father safe. No need for me to be stuck in here.
I glance at the door a few seats to the left of me. No. No way I can leave without my father noticing. I’ll have to stick this out.
I yawn. With nothing else holding my attention, my father’s words are harder to ignore.
“The city has seen an immense increase in population over the past seven years. Population is up by five percent since last year’s census. The increase is most significant in the Outer Circle of the city.”
Why the fuck am I here? What do Outer Circle population statistics have to do with me?
I rarely ever leave the Government Complex. My house might be just shy of the inner wall, but that doesn’t mean I have much contact with people in the city’s three other Circles. My whole world is limited to the complex.
The main government building, the Imperium—another stupid name—holds this assembly hall, PCR headquarters, scientific labs, and my father’s office. Around the Imperium, there are twenty-five houses in the Government Complex.
My father lives in the largest one, closest to the Imperium. Daily commute of a few steps and an elevator ride. Must be nice.
I live in one of the small, cube-like houses set on the outer edges of the complex. I don’t mind the walk. Clears the head.
The door opens, and heads turn to watch a portly man with balding hair enter. He hurries to my father’s side and whispers urgently into his ear. My father’s eyes widen in surprise. He immediately sorts his features into an emotionless mask. Yet his voice
betrays his nervousness.
“I am very sorry indeed. I am needed in the labs, and we shall resume this topic at a later time.” Without waiting for a reaction, my father rushes out of the room, balding man at his heels.
After the door falls shut behind them, the room stirs into motion. I jump up and hurry to the door. By the time I get into the hallway, my father and the man are already gone.
No idea what could be urgent enough to interrupt a town hall meeting. Something important must have happened at the labs.
Isabel storms past me, tablet clutched in her arms. She sits down at her desk in the main hall. I don’t stop to exchange pleasantries. Instead, I throw her a perfunctory smile as I pass.
I’ve never liked the woman much. Ambitious, career-first-type woman. The only thing that makes me play nice is that she was matched with my best friend. Not that Zeke likes her much either.
I leave the building as fast as I can without running. Fresh, cold air hits my face as soon as I step out of the door. Better.
With a grunt of frustration and a loud thud, I land on the thick mat. I almost had it. I stare up at the climbing route that keeps beating me.
“You’ll get there, mate.” Zeke smiles broadly and extends an arm down to help me up. I grab his forearm and allow him to pull me up.
“Two-hundredth time lucky, you think?” I can’t keep the annoyance and sarcasm out of my voice.
It’s late. The bouldering area has emptied completely, and we are almost alone in the hall. Most people are with their families.
Zeke and I spend most of our evenings together. I live alone. Zeke doesn’t like spending time with his family. If we are not here climbing or at the punching bags, we hang out at my apartment with a couple of beers.
I watch the other two climbers in the gym. A woman hangs dangerously from one arm. Her muscles twitch and bulk. She slips and falls into the rope with a loud swear and a grunt of annoyance. Her partner is pulled into the air and hovers for a few seconds before he finds his footing and lowers her down.
I prefer bouldering. Shorter bursts of strength and energy. No harness digging into my balls. No rope getting in the way. Not to mention the kick of adrenaline when there is nothing keeping you from falling.
Zeke walks up to the rock that sits like a strange mushroom in the middle of the bouldering area. The walls here are much lower than in the top-rope area where the couple is climbing. High enough to get hurt, but low enough to keep the chances slim.
I watch Zeke as he takes a circle around the rock. He picks a route that looks impossible to me. Impressed as always, I watch him climb with ease. He slaps the wall at the top, holds for a moment, then lands much more elegantly than someone his size should.
I decide to try the same route again. My muscles are already sore, and my fingers feel like I’ve been climbing on a grinding stone. This won’t go well.
I reach and grab onto two handholds. I put my left foot on a hold underneath me, the right heel hooked underneath, another sitting above my hip. I lean as far as I can to the left and swing slightly. My eyes are fixed on the hold I need, far above my right side.
My arms are shaking from exhaustion. I don’t let go. I rearrange my fingers slightly on the left grip, build as much momentum as I can, and push off with my left foot. My right hand reaches for the targeted stone. My fingers connect. I feel joy and triumph. But my fingers slip, and I fall just as hard as before.
Fuck this.
I roar in frustration to let off steam. The couple looks over from the other end of the gym. I kick the wall as hard as I can. A sharp pain burns up my leg. I grab my foot and hop around. The woman stifles a laugh then quickly busies herself with the knot in front of her.
I stumble and fall next to Zeke. Like a sulking toddler, I pull myself up until my back rests against the rock. I let my head fall back against the cold stone and stare at the opposite wall.
Zeke joins me. He crosses his legs underneath him and smirks. “What did the rock do to deserve that?”
I know I’m more frustrated than I should be. I have been working on this route for weeks. It’s the hardest I’ve tried. Failure doesn’t normally derail me this much. I search for the source of my anger.
The meeting. My father’s sudden disappearance. No explanation. I hate being left in the dark. My father always does this.
“My dad convinced me to go to another meeting today. Boring as ever.” I sigh. “He still hopes. Wants me to become his assistant or whatever.” I shake my head. “And I think something happened at the labs today.”
Zeke raises a bushy eyebrow. “Any ideas?”
“No. One of those science guys pulled my father out of the meeting. Didn’t give a reason. Just said we’d finish later and ran out.”
I look down at my damaged hands. Even with all my calluses, the skin is bleeding slightly. My fingers are shaking.
“I hate it when he does this,” I say through gritted teeth. “Wants me to be there? Sure. But trust me with details? No. I’m stuck working security. I am his son, for fuck’s sake. Why shut me out? He says he wants me to take up a role in government. How am I supposed to do that if he doesn’t tell me anything? It’s fucking annoying.” My father has been keeping secrets from me for a long time. But I think it’s gotten worse since I joined PCR.
I shake my head and stand up. I stretch my fingers and wrists. Everything hurts. “Let’s call it a day. There’s no point trying again. I can barely move my fingers. See you tomorrow?”
Zeke reaches back and ties his dirty blond hair into a knot. His square face looks broader with his hair pulled out of it. “You’ll have to, mate. Tomorrow is that bloody cocktail party. Isabel is thrilled.”
The air outside is cool and calming. A strand of sweaty hair clings to my cheek. I push it out of my face. I bet it’s now standing upright or at a weird angle. I hate how untidy my hair always gets. And I hate how pale the black color makes me look. I’ll never say this out loud, but I wish I looked more like Zeke. Effortlessly cool.
The air still smells like rain from the shower earlier. It is pitch-black outside despite the street lamp’s cold, bluish-white light. The dark gray, cube-like houses look surreal against the black sky.
I am no fan of the dark. It makes me more afraid than I like to admit. I speed up a little to get home faster. My house is a few minutes away from the gym. But at night the walk always feels twice as long. I look over my shoulder. I feel the shadows moving.
I let out a deep breath when I step onto my porch. A bright orange bulb bathes the wood in a warm light. I am home. The coolness of the metal doorknob sends a throb of pain through my worn hands. The door unlocks at my touch. I push it open and step into my house.
I don’t look back into the night.
The hot water of the shower hits my body, stings my raw fingers. I hold them up into the stream. The water pools in my hands, washing away the dried blood around my calluses. I relish the slight pain. It means I worked hard.
Today’s climbing was worse than usual. The frustration made me careless. I pushed myself harder.
There’s a large scratch on my shoulder. I don’t remember that happening. I turn to let the shower clean the wound. I wince at the fresh wave of pain. Blood-tinged water runs over the conifer trees on my biceps and follows their roots down my arm. The water drips off into the shower right at the spot where the roots wrap around my wrist.
I have never seen a real forest in my life.
II
Thursday
3
Chase
“Damn it!” I throw the fabric I’m working on against the wall.
The black bundle hits the wall with a soft thump before landing on top of the overflowing basket underneath. The basket is meant for pieces that cannot be saved but might have enough good material for smaller projects or repairs. This is the third I have added to the pile today.
Betsy, an elderly Asian woman who is assigned to the room with me, looks as if she would like nothing more t
han to throw me into the basket with my failed attempts.
This room is usually depressingly quiet while we work. Talking or any form of noise is not tolerated. I am lucky our room is farthest from the overseer’s office, or I’d be in trouble for disturbing the other workers. Automatically, I glance up at the camera in the corner, red light blinking ominously.
I look back at the sad excuse for a uniform sleeve now lying in the corner. I don’t feel like myself today. I am the best seamstress in the factory, and that is saying a lot considering there are fifty women working here.
This has been going on ever since I started work this morning. Mistake after mistake. My mind is on Willow’s exam tomorrow. I still don’t exactly know why it’s bothering me so much, but it’s impossible to focus on work.
I cut another piece of fabric and return to my sewing machine. I bite my lip in concentration as I align the cloth and prepare the machine. I lower my foot on the pedal. I breathe out slowly to relax. I watch the rhythmic dance of the needle and try to focus on my task. I cannot ruin another piece of fabric.
My mind wanders, and instead of ruining another sleeve, I lift my foot off the pedal. I try not to let my frustration show too much and suppress a sigh to not annoy Betsy. There is no point in working today.
Annoyed, I shake my head and get up from my desk. I fold the started jacket and place it carefully into my desk drawer. I put away my tools and center the sewing machine on my desk. If I leave a mess, I’ll be in trouble.
“I have to leave early today. See you on Monday,” I say to Betsy.
I’ll have to make up the remaining hour on Monday, so that will be a long day. Mondays are hard enough without adding any extra hours to a nine-hour shift.