by Rich Larson
Violet woke up to sunshine streaming through her bedroom window and Anise tiptoeing across her stomach. She plucked her off quickly enough to avoid the claws digging in, setting her down beside the pillow. Anise’s bottlebrush tail stiffened, then curled as Violet petted her.
“So you do remember me, you little shit,” she said.
Anise gave a rumbling purr, and then something else started to purr from outside. Violet frowned, reaching across herself to scissor two blinds farther apart with her fingers. The sunlight was brighter than she’d seen it in a long time. It took a second of squinting to see her dad with the electric mower, pushing up along the fence to get the dandelions.
Everything was wrong. Her dad wasn’t walking like a waster—he was taking smooth even steps, straight-backed, making tiny adjustments with the mower. The mower shouldn’t have been working because there was no electricity. The grass was soft dewy green. The sun was shining through the clouds.
Violet scrambled off the bed, making Anise hiss and jump. She yanked the blinds all the way up to look closer. Her dad seemed taller, and his hair was dark and full with no gray in it, how he looked in old photos from when she was a kid. There was no clamp gleaming at the nape of his sunburned neck. When he turned back toward the house and saw her at the window, he waved.
Violet felt her heart drop. He could see her. Stranger still, he was smiling at her, giving a crooked grin as he backhanded the sweat off his forehead. Her dad didn’t smile at her. Hadn’t for years. By the time she dazedly raised her arm to wave back, he was mowing again. As she pulled back from the window, her faint reflection jolted her. With a giddy feeling in her stomach, a feeling like helium that could float her away if she wasn’t careful, Violet threw herself over to the mirror.
It was her. It was more her than she’d ever been. The thick nose she’d inherited from her dad, the one she tried to thin with makeup when she could, was gone. It was small and straight now, like her mom’s, and the shape of her face had subtly changed too. Higher brows, higher cheekbones. Thinner jaw. She was fucking beautiful.
Violet peeled off her shirt. The rest of her had changed too. Her shoulders were narrower, and the puffy flesh filling her bra cups was more than three months of hormones could account for, and her sharp hips had widened. She touched her stomach. Nothing but pale smooth skin, no Parasite and no scar either, like it had never been inside her at all. And when she reached lower, the other thing was gone too.
“This isn’t real,” she whispered. But she didn’t move.
“Violet!” Her mom’s voice, from the kitchen, warm and rich and nothing like the othermother. “Violet, are you up?”
She had never called her Violet. Not once. Violet didn’t reply, half because she wanted to hear it again, half because she wanted to stand in front of the mirror forever.
“Violet? I heard you get out of bed, don’t you dare get back in. It’s practically noon.”
With the helium feeling tugging her along, Violet took one last look in the mirror and then stepped out into the hallway. She remembered the shirt in her hand and pulled it on as she entered the kitchen. When the fabric slid off her face, she saw her mom at the table. She looked like she did in Polaroids, with flyaway blonde hair and a ruddy color to her skin. Younger, prettier. No puffy bloodshot eyes from crying or smoking up in the basement, where she thought Violet couldn’t smell it.
“This isn’t real,” Violet said again.
Her mom was sitting at the table with a dog-eared sketchbook Violet hadn’t seen for years and years. There was a jumble of wooden shapes and blocks set up in the middle for a still life. She glanced up and gave Violet a faint smile, then returned to the sketchbook, working it with a charcoal pencil.
“No,” she admitted. “Not how you think of real.”
Everything in the kitchen shivered and flickered, like a glitch in a game, and for a brief moment Violet felt herself standing on the dusty linoleum, still clutching the black orb to her eye. Then she was back inside. Sunlight. Gleaming clean sink. Air freshener wafting lavender to her nose. Everything clean and beautiful and perfect.
“We can make it more real,” her mom said, scratching thoughtfully against the paper. “How you think of real. It will take a little more time. It will take a little more of your mind. We are beginning to process data from the other simulations. Already we understand you better.”
Violet looked at the drying dishes in the rack and realized there were no empty beer bottles beside them. She went to the fridge, ignoring her mom-not-mom, and yanked it open. Where her dad usually kept his Heineken, there was a nonsensical row of plastic water bottles. She nearly laughed.
“This is so fucked,” she breathed. “This is …” She whirled back to the table. “Is this what they see?” she demanded. “Is this how it is for everyone?”
“Better, for them,” her mom said. “We can make yours better too. More real. How you think of real.” She held up the sketchpad and studied it, then feathered in a carefully chosen new line. “It will be like the sky.”
“The sky?” Violet repeated.
Her mom tapped her chin, leaving a smudge of charcoal, eyes rolled up how they always did when she was trying to remember something. Then she smiled. “Like heaven,” she said.
Violet pictured a whirlybird drilling into her skull, sealing in the clamp. She thought of herself and her family stumbling around the dark house, smiling at nothing. It was sick and horrifying and it made her heart ache with longing. Because on the inside, it would be bright. It would be a mom who still painted in the summer and a dad who still loved her and she would be Violet because Ivan had never even existed. She caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window and it split her.
“Why did you come here?” she asked bitterly. “Who the fuck are you?”
But she realized she didn’t even care about those answers anymore. It was just something to ask before she asked the real question.
“We came because it was necessary,” her mom said. “We are strangers. How you think of strangers.”
“Yeah, well, kids aren’t supposed to talk to strangers,” Violet muttered, looking past her reflection, watching her dad maneuver the mower around an apple tree that had died ages ago. She turned back to the table. “What do you want me to do?” she finally asked. “I know I don’t get this heaven shit for free.”
In answer, her mom turned the sketchbook to face her. It was a beautiful and frightening thicket of gray and black and bleached-bone white. Violet could see the dark swoop of the ship up in grayscale sky, the jagged silhouettes of ruins. In the foreground, she saw the shadowy tangled mass of the wormy wall. In front of it, two figures, the taller one guiding the shorter by the arm. Violet recognized her face in sharp profile, poking out from her curtain of black hair. She already knew before she looked at the second figure who it was.
Short and skinny and dark-skinned, with a face that seemed gaunter now that his head was shaved, no longer a little kid’s face. And drifting over Bo, its underbelly peeling open, reaching for him with long pincer-tipped arms, was the pod that would take him back to the warehouses.
Everything in the kitchen shivered and flickered and was gone. Violet found herself sitting on the linoleum, the orb clutched hard in her fist. It wasn’t warm anymore. It felt cold and heavy as pewter as she turned it, over and over, in hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.
13
The days after Violet left were quiet. Nobody was supposed to talk about it, but everyone did, about whether or not she would come back, about what would happen if she did. Jenna had puffy eyes the first morning from crying, and the next one Bo saw that someone had left a letter on Violet’s bed. It was a sheet of printer paper, markered with shaky oversize script Bo thought was Arabic, and had two tiny plastic dinosaurs taped to it. Later he saw Saif knuckling his eyes in the stairwell with Alberto rubbing his back and grinning in a more worried way than usual.
Bo had thought Jon would be angry—it had seemed like
him and Violet were friends, good ones—but if he was, Bo couldn’t detect it in his blank face. Most of the Lost Boys were like that. Maybe there had been too many upsetting things before this one, and now the scar tissue was too thick. Nearly everyone agreed that Violet should have taken her punishment, and then everything would have been fine, but nobody looked at Elliot when they said that.
As for Bo, he felt hot guilt crash over him every time he passed Violet’s empty mattress or heard someone whisper her name. He’d sworn on his sister not to tell anyone where they’d gone that night. But inside the dark storage unit, with the rasping knife and shuddering pod and Wyatt’s soft voice in his ear, it had seemed like he was always going to tell. Like there had never been any other choice.
He hadn’t known what Wyatt would do. Wyatt had said he was worried about her, and Bo had believed it. Every time he remembered the kiss he’d seen on the rooftop, he felt confused and angry all over again. And he knew, in his gut, that it wasn’t something he would understand when he was older. Wyatt didn’t have a Parasite, but he did have something else. Something bad that he knew how to hide. It scared Bo to wonder if he had the same thing now.
Wyatt had spent all of yesterday at the pod, only coming back near midnight, smiling a weary smile and saying vague things about learning weaknesses, making plans. He was at the pod again today, and Bo was glad. He didn’t want to be around Wyatt. He didn’t want to be around anybody. But when he went on a forage to get out of the theater, Quentin volunteered to go with him. It took Bo a while to realize Wyatt had probably ordered it. He sulked around kicking rocks and picking food stores at random while Quentin followed him like a pale gangly shadow. He thought about taking off running, knowing Quentin wouldn’t be able to catch him, and maybe trying to find Violet and apologize to her.
But he didn’t know where she was, and he didn’t want to piss Wyatt off again. The important thing was that Wyatt was making plans. The important thing was that they’d get Lia out before summer, before her birthday, at least, because the seasons didn’t seem to be changing anymore. They would rescue her just like Violet had said.
By the time they were back to the theater, Bo had stopped scowling at Quentin and both of them were gnawing on a spicy beef jerky he’d found in the back of the supermarket, far away from the spoiled meat. He reasoned Quentin was just doing what Wyatt told him, same as everyone did. Bo was putting Violet out of his mind, planning to join the evening card game loud and laughing, until he saw a small sliver of yellow stuck up beside the doors.
He peeled the Winnie the Pooh Band-Aid off the brick while Quentin’s head was turned. Farther down along the wall, he saw two more placed higher up, forming an arrow that pointed around the corner of the theater. Maybe it would be better if he ignored it. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could forget how tight and fierce Violet had hugged him while they stood outside his burned-down house.
“You need a leak, Q?” Bo asked. He knew only a few things about Quentin. One was that he was shy in the bathroom.
Quentin shook his head.
“I’m going to go in the alley,” Bo said. “Bathroom smells funny today.” He held out the bulging grocery bag. “Can you stash my stuff for me?” he asked.
Quentin chewed thoughtfully on the jerky, debating, then reached out and took it. “I’ll wait for you,” he said, sheepish. “Wyatt said nobody’s supposed to go solo outside the hideout. Not just the under-tens.”
Bo nodded. His heart sped a bit as they approached the alley and his Parasite noticed, giving a little ripple. Quentin carefully turned his back, as if Bo was going to take a dump or take off his clothes or something, and Bo started down the alley, searching the sooty wall for another Band-Aid. He pulled his track pants down his hips as loudly as possible.
Then he saw it: a folded-over newspaper on the ground, with a cartoon-covered Band-Aid sticking out of it like a bookmark. Bo cleared his throat, set his feet, and snatched up the paper. He heard Quentin shifting around behind him, making the grocery bag rustle. Bo tucked the paper in his waistband and stood there for a while, trying to coax something out of his bladder. He whistled a few notes through his dry lips.
“You done?” Quentin finally asked.
“Can’t go when I know someone’s behind me,” Bo said, working his pants back up. The paper slid against his waistband.
“Me either,” Quentin said, looking apologetic. “Go in the bathroom, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Bo said. He took the grocery bag back and followed Quentin into the theater, feeling a bit of sweat on his palms, a bit of static off his Parasite.
Violet yanked the orb away from her face and hurled it across the room. It smashed an old picture frame off the mantle, bounced to the floor, rolled. She glared at it. She’d been trying for hours, ever since she got back from leaving the note for Bo at the theater. But no matter how long she stared, she didn’t see anything but glowing red. No more perfect house, perfect family, perfect reflection in the mirror.
“Let me see it again,” she said thickly. “I need to see it again to decide, alright?”
Nobody answered. Her mom was gone to bed; her dad was slumped in the chair, staring intently at the blank television. With a jolt, she realized the sky outside had darkened. She’d lost track of time. The analog clock in the kitchen ticked toward midnight. Nearly time to go.
She could guess why the orb didn’t work anymore. They already knew what she’d decided. Even so, she snatched it up off the floor on her way out and slid it into the pocket of her jacket.
Bo waited until he was sure everyone was asleep, then waited a little longer. Then he levered himself up off his bed, quiet as he could, and crept toward the door. The note Violet had left him in the alleyway was crumpled deep in his pocket. It was brief. Six words. Midnight. Fountain. I need your help.
The lobby was dark but Bo knew where everyone slept: He recognized them by their shapes and snores as he snuck past. Gilly always started a mattress-length away from Bree and wriggled closer to her in the night; Elliot hid under a big cocoon of fleece blankets; Jon murmured in a language Bo had never heard before.
He felt a tug of guilt as he slipped out the door, into the entryway. Like he was betraying them. But he would come back once he’d helped Violet with whatever it was she needed. He would help Violet, apologize to her, and maybe that would make up for what he’d done at least a little. Then he would come back and follow Wyatt’s plan.
The main door gave a bone-deep creak when he eased it open. He grimaced, froze to listen. Someone back in the lobby rolled over in their sheets. Jenna’s telltale snores, which always seemed too big for her body, stuttered to a stop. Bo held his breath. It wasn’t strange for a Lost Boy to get up in the night, stare at the ceiling, go off to piss or cry in private. Nearly everyone had bad dreams. But Bo didn’t want anyone asking him where he was going, and if Wyatt had made that new rule just for him, like he suspected, they might try to stop him.
Jenna took a deep gaspy breath and started to snore again. Bo pushed the door open just a little bit more, enough to slide through sideways, and then he was out of the theater. Cold air slipped over his shaved skull and widened his eyes. It felt good. Clean. He sucked in a deep breath of his own, letting it hollow out his chest. Nothing had felt clean since his visit to the storage unit, even after he’d scrubbed the yellow fluid off his forearms and used seven whole bottles of water for his shower.
But now he was going to set things right, at least a little. The cold breeze nipped harder at the tips of his ears and he pulled his hood tight, setting off down the sidewalk.
“What are you doing, Bo?”
Bo’s heart stopped. Slouching out of the alley, hands in his pockets, was Wyatt. Quentin fidgeted behind him, guilty-looking. Wyatt gave a slow disappointed shake of his head. With the shadows half hiding his face, blacking his eye sockets, he suddenly looked more frightening than any waster.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Bo said. He paused. “I’ll go try again.”
Wyatt laughed, a warm laugh that gave Bo an odd feeling of relief. Quentin’s lips twitched a confused smile, and that made Bo start laughing too. The fear and the exhaustion and all the other chemicals made him almost giddy. He’d been caught, but he’d tried his best to meet with Violet. And if he got the electrical cord in the morning, that would even things out another way.
He was turning back toward the theater doors when Wyatt crossed to him in two quick steps and put the knife up under his chin.
Bo’s heart hammered, his Parasite roiled, he felt adrenaline crash through him cold and—
“None of that,” Wyatt said. “Deep breaths, Bo. I don’t want you to go disappearing anybody.” He spun him around, yanked his hood off; Bo felt the cold pinprick of the knife move to the base of his neck. “I don’t want to feel any static, Bo. None. Breathe slow. If your Parasite keeps twitching, I’m going to kill you.”
Bo was shivering all over; his joints felt like sloshing water. He hyperventilated. Remembering the storage unit, the way Wyatt had jabbed and twisted, knowing it wasn’t some bluff. His Parasite crackled. Maybe if he was quick. But he’d never vanished a person before, never even thought of it. Didn’t know if he could.
The tip of the knife wormed into the skin of his neck.
“Relax, Bo,” Wyatt said. “Just relax. I know it’s tough. Think about something else, right? Think about a happy memory.”
Bo wanted to scream. Quentin was nervously circling, surprise all over his face, but Bo knew he wouldn’t help him over Wyatt. Quentin had been a Lost Boy from the start. Bo wanted to scream, but slowly, slowly, he brought his breathing under control. He shut his eyes tight and thought about the summer, about him and Lia and his mom in the car with the windows down. Sea smells. Rock-paper-scissors for the radio dial. Gas station slushies that stained their mouths red.
“Good job,” Wyatt said softly. “Let’s walk now. Keep breathing.”
Bo walked with Wyatt tight behind him. After a few missteps they were in sync, so the knife was resting light on Bo’s shoulder, flashing in the corner of his eye. Quentin trailed after them silently. Bo tried to stay in the car. He tried to breathe even. He was watching his feet, but his subconscious must have known where they were headed, because when they finally stopped and he looked up at the sealed storage unit, he wasn’t surprised.