The Collapse: Time Bomb

by Penelope Wright

Carlos’s voice is tight. “I watched you walk away. I thought you weren’t coming back…and I was just going to let you go. But then I saw you stop, like you couldn’t decide. And I came out to get you. I don’t want to make that mistake again. I don’t want you to leave.”

  I rip my eyes away from the night sky. “I’m not leaving, Carlos. But have you seen this?” My voice thickens. “It’s so amazing.”

  Carlos sinks down beside me and takes my hand. “What is it?”

  “The stars.”

  “Oh, baby.” Carlos sighs. “You can’t see stars in the city.”

  I blink rapidly and shake my head. “You can’t? What are those then?” I ask, waving my arm above me in a sweeping arc.

  “Office windows.”

  “Wow,” I breathe. “Windows don’t look like that where I come from.” An image of tall, dusky, grayish-green skyscrapers floods my mind and I close my eyes. I flex my fists involuntarily, as if I can grab the fleeting mental image, shake it, and make it tell me everything, but it’s already receded back to the recesses of my mind.

  “You make the world a magical place, Boo. I can’t wait until you do see stars.”

  My eyes fly open and hope surges in my chest. “Can you? Are they real?”

  Carlos nods, and his face seems to glow from within, though I know it’s just the light from the office windows shining down on us.

  “On a clear night, if you get far enough away from the city, you can see stars.”

  “How many?”

  “Thousands. Millions.”

  “Will you take me to see them?”

  Carlos cups my chin in his hands. “I promise.”

  I smile and look up at him through my lashes. “I believe you.”

  I step back and lace my hands together in front of my body. “What’s your story, Carlos?

  Carlos shifts his eyes away from mine, and his lips press together. “How did I become homeless, do you mean?”

  “I want to know how you became you, so if that’s where you want to start, then I want to hear it. I can’t go back to sleep after that.” I wave my arm in the air toward the office windows. “I’m up for the day.”

  “Hopefully, my tale of woe won’t put you right back to sleep.”

  “You could never bore me.”

  “That might be the nicest compliment I’ve ever gotten.” Carlos looks like he’s going to smile for a second, but then he quirks his lips down. “Let’s go get our stuff.”

  I follow him back to the scraggly bush. He crawls underneath and emerges with his backpack.

  He and I scramble down the pockmarked concrete slope of the underpass until we reach the sidewalk. I match his step and we walk slowly along the quiet pre-dawn streets. I don’t prompt him for his story again. I know he’ll start talking when he’s ready. It doesn’t take long.

  “My family was normal, before. Me, Mom and Dad, my little brother, Ricky. We had a house with a yard. We loved baseball and hated homework and Ricky wouldn’t eat anything unless it was round.” Carlos snorts. “Mozzarella balls, oranges, grapes, sandwiches cut into a circle. Everything had to be round.” He kicks his toe on the sidewalk. “Then Mom got cancer. I was nine when she was diagnosed. Ricky was six. They tried everything, but the cancer was really aggressive. She was in and out of the hospital, and after two years, she died.”

  I blink slowly and my throat feels dry. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too,” Carlos says softly. “She was a great mom.” His voice strengthens. “Anyway, my parents spent all the money they had on medical bills. Mom was on a ton of medications, and chemo made her feel terrible. My dad decided to grow a little marijuana, just a few plants, for her to use. It helped her with pain and nausea.” He pauses. “Dad lost his job while she was sick, he took too much time off taking care of her. After she died, Dad kept growing. He added more plants. He was good with them, and he knew a couple of guys who were willing to pay cash for whatever he harvested. It ended up becoming a full-time job, and it paid the rent. Until the day he got busted.”

  “Busted?” I ask. From the somber note in his voice, I had a pretty good idea what that meant.

  Carlos’s tone turns bitter. “Pot’s legal now. But it wasn’t when he was growing it. It became legal before Dad even went to trial. But he’s brown and he had a public defender. He got twenty-five years in federal prison. I was twelve.”

  “Oh, Carlos. You’ve lived on your own since then? What happened to your little brother?”

  Carlos shifts. “I didn’t live on my own, at first. Me and Ricky got put into foster care.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when the cops send kids to go to live with strangers because their own parents can’t do it.”

  “Sounds weird.”

  “Yeah, it kind of is.”

  “You said I reminded you of your foster sister,” I say, recognition dawning in my voice.

  “Yeah. Ricky and I got split up. One of Mom’s favorite nurses was a licensed foster care provider, and she wanted us both, but the state wouldn’t let her. They said her apartment wasn’t big enough. Ricky went with her because he was younger, and I’m glad he did because I know he’s safe.”

  “So Ricky’s still there? With the nurse?”

  Carlos nods. “Yeah. He’s sixteen now and just finished his sophomore year of high school.”

  I’m not sure what that is, but Carlos’s voice is full of pride, so I know it’s a good thing. “Where did you go?” I ask.

  Carlos shrugs. “I bounced around. Six different places the first year.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a metal disk, which he flips into the air and catches. “I spent about a year in a group home when I was thirteen, but when I was fourteen I found my forever home.” Carlos’s voice has turned sarcastic and he rolls his eyes. “That was where I met Rachel.”

  Somewhere nearby, a pigeon coos. The neon around us is less vibrant in the filtered gray light of dawn. There are more people on the sidewalk now, their pace faster than ours.

  “She’s the one I remind you of?”

  “Yeah. She was seventeen but really small for her age. I was fourteen and I thought I was older than her at first. She’d been there a few years and showed me the ropes.”

  “You’d already been in foster care for a couple years, though, right? So why did you need her help? What was different about that place?”

  “My foster parents were an older couple. They had an adult daughter with cerebral palsy that they needed help taking care of. So instead of hiring a nurse, they got foster kids. Rachel was really good with her, but she couldn’t lift her from her wheelchair or get her in and out of the bathtub. They picked me from a list because I was six feet tall and a hundred and eighty pounds. The medical knowledge I’d picked up from being in the hospital with Mom was an unexpected bonus for them.”

  Carlos reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go find some breakfast before the sun is all the way up. Better cover if you need to pick a lock.”

  I scoff. “I don’t need cover.” I follow him down a narrow opening between tall buildings, and sure enough, there’s a lock on the large trashcan box that Carlos calls a ‘dumpster.’ I pick it easily and he unthreads the chain. He lifts the lid and a cloud of insects swarm up, along with a horrid smell.

  Carlos slams the lid back down. “Ugh, diapers. Bet this place has a basement daycare.”

  “I thought people only put stuff you could use in these things,” I say, waving my hand in front of my nose to clear the air. “That smells like a six-and-under floor.”

  Carlos looks at me quizzically but tilts his head at the next dumpster over. “Pretty soon, I’m going to have to explain the concept of garbage to you, but I want to enjoy your innocence for just a little longer. Try this one.”

  I pick the lock on that dumpster and the contents are far more acceptable. Carlos and I pull out a bunch of brown curved things that he calls bananas and a good-smelling container of bread, which we spli
t.

  He pulls his backpack off, wraps up half his share of the bread and tucks it inside, along with two of the bananas. “For later,” he says, hitching his backpack over his shoulder.

  I can always pop a lock on a dumpster to get food later, but maybe he’s expecting more trouble with diapers. Unconsciously, I move to tuck some of my bread into an inside pocket of my vest before I remember the vest is gone and I’m still wearing the slippery red dress. I look down at myself ruefully. “I think I need a change of clothes.”

  Carlos nods. “Later we’ll go back to Goodwill. Kevin’s working there today. We’ll get you something more durable. Keep the dress, though.”

  I nod. I love this dress in a way that I can’t explain. “I should have a backpack too,” I say.

  Carlos agrees. “They don’t always have those, but we’ll find you something – at least a satchel for now.”

  I pop the last of my bread in my mouth and lick my lips. “So tell me more about the foster place where you lived. What happened? Why are you here now and not still there?”

  Carlos turns a corner onto Spring Street. “My foster parents weren’t great people or anything. They weren’t the biggest jerks I ever met in the system, but they aren’t humanitarians. They get paid for every foster kid they take in. So I was working for them, taking care of their daughter for free, and they were getting a paycheck from the state to cover the cost of ‘raising’ me. I didn’t go to school; they had a homeschool certificate so I didn’t have to. I just worked all day long.” Carlos shrugs one shoulder. “When I turned eighteen, they kicked me out and moved in another teenage kid who was also tall for his age. I would have left anyway.” He sticks his thumbs under his backpack straps. “So it’s fine. I’d rather take my chances out here.”

  I wrinkle my brow. “What ever happened to Rachel?”

  “They kicked her out three years before me. She gave me her email address and said to stay in touch. I don’t know why she did that; she knew it wouldn’t happen. We weren’t allowed to use the computer at the foster home, like they were afraid we’d report them or something. As if anyone would listen to us.”

  “They have computers at the library. I saw them yesterday. You could email her now, couldn’t you?”

  “I suppose. She’s twenty-two now. She probably doesn’t remember me, and even if she did, she’s got her own life to live. She doesn’t need some homeless punk kid asking her for a couch to crash on.”

  “Yeah, but that isn’t what you’d be doing. I think you should email her.”

  Carlos waves his hand at the sidewalk. “Her email might not even work anymore.”

  He seems to be growing more irritable and I feel like I should probably back off, but I can’t stop myself from trying once more. “How will you know unless you try?”

  “I don’t know, okay? She could be dead for all I know.”

  And I realize the source of Carlos’s fear. It’s the not knowing. Right now, Rachel’s simply lost, so she can be anything. She can be healthy, happy, and successful. He cares about her. He doesn’t want to find out the truth. He prefers the dream, so I drop it.

  I recognize our surroundings. “Are we going back to the library?” I ask hopefully.

  “That’s what I said we’d do, isn’t it?” Carlos says, and I can tell he’s still ruffled, but he softens his words with a grin. It fades, however, as we take a couple more steps down the hill. “Ah, crap.”

  “What?” I ask, scanning the street for the source of Carlos’s dismay.

  “Cops,” he says.

  “Where?” I bounce on tiptoes, as if I could see them if I were just a little taller.

  “Over there,” Carlos says, grabbing my elbow and steering me in a different direction, so that the rising sun is on our left now. “Don’t draw their attention. I’m sure they’re not there for us or anything, but you did just escape from the hospital yesterday. No need to tempt fate.” Carlos purses his lips. “Damn. I have to go to the bathroom. We shouldn’t go in there now, though, not with that many cops around. Not too many places downtown with a public bathroom, but I know a good one just a few blocks away. Close to where I first met you, actually. Come on. You’ll like it. It’s got a great view.”

  Twenty minutes later, Carlos and I stride through wide glass doors and into a high-ceilinged marble lobby. “There’s three sets of elevators here. We have to get on the right one, the one that goes to forty. There’s a coffee shop on that floor and a public restroom where no one ever hassles you as long as you don’t act like a freak.” He leads me to the center of the building and presses a button with his index finger.

  My pulse pounds in my neck. It feels like my heart has crawled up to the top of my throat.

  “I know you don’t like elevators, but it’s really fast and smooth and the view is seriously incredible.”

  A bell dings, the doors slide open, and I allow myself to be led inside. My legs refuse to bend at the knee, just like last night in the crosswalk, so I waddle. Carlos squeezes my hand. The other passengers pointedly ignore us. The elevator doors close and my stomach whooshes up and down inside my body as we’re rocketed upward. I close my eyes.

  They’re still closed when the bell dings again and Carlos pulls me forward. My legs still aren’t working right.

  “Open your eyes,” he whispers, not unkindly.

  I do, and I gasp. Carlos has led me over to a window, and from here, I can see the whole city. It looks wrong. There shouldn’t be so many buildings. But there are. Dozens of roofs are visible below us, and when I crane my neck and peer down, I see all the way to the streets, which are full of tiny cars, and even smaller, little moving specks that I know must be people.

  “Where’s all the water?” I ask in a tremulous voice.

  “Over there,” Carlos beams, pointing.

  I follow his finger and see the sparkling strip of blue. “It’s…beautiful,” I whisper. I never expected that word to pop out of my mouth about water, but it hovers in the air between us until all the blood rushes to my head and I wobble on my feet.

  “Whoa,” Carlos says, steadying me. “Vertigo. You should sit down.”

  “Can I?” I ask.

  “Yeah, if it’s just for a minute, they won’t hassle you. You can sit at any of those empty tables while you wait for me. I won’t be long.” He hurries down a hallway back in the direction of the elevators.

  I trip-stumble to a small table with two empty chairs on either side. A man in a green apron works a loud machine. Somehow I know that he’s making coffee. I’ve seen somebody do this before. I just can’t remember when. The man sets a white cup on an oval counter. “Half-caf mochaccino for Corbley,” he calls out.

  “Courtney?” says a woman, her voice rising to make her word a question.

  “Sure thing.” The man laughs. “You know how we are.”

  His arms fly at the machine he works, whirring and grinding noises emanating from various parts of the apparatus. He’s making coffee. I saw someone else doing it yesterday. A balding man in a green apron appears behind him. “Ready for your break?” he asks.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?” the first man responds. “I’m ready to collapse.”

  The floor tilts underneath me. I grip the table’s edge hard and pull myself to standing. “What did you say?” My voice trembles.

  The men stare at me, but neither one responds to my question. “Are you waiting for something, sweetie?” the balding man says. He gives me a sympathetic look. “Would you like a cup of ice water?”

  I shake my head and stagger away from the men, around a slight angle in the wall. I stop short and stare. There in front of me is a huge full-wall photograph of the city. I know this picture. I reach out and brush it with my fingertips, my heart and my head pounding. I whirl around and go back to the coffee counter. “What year is it?” I blurt. I hadn’t realized I was going to speak until the words are already out there.

  The bald man is the only one working now. “2018,” he says. “L
et me get you that water.”

  He scribbles something on a paper cup with a black marker and sets it down, then turns away to get me a water. I grab the marker and dash back to the giant photo of the city. My knees decide that they’re done holding me up, and I crash onto them at the base of the photo. I uncap the pen and scrawl the only thing I can think of. Then Carlos is there, hauling me to my feet and rushing me down the hallway and into a stairwell. I think I hear angry voices behind us.

  Stairs. No one can beat me on stairs. I grab Carlos’s hand. I refuse to leave him behind. I run as if Death himself is grasping at my shoulders, his breath heavy and hot on my neck.

  Chapter Eighteen

  April 13, 2074

  Help me Daddy.

  The phrase ricochets in David Columbia’s head like a ping pong ball shot out of a highspeed cannon. He told her to paint a wall blue. Instead, she’d defaced the mural next to it and sent a desperate cry for help across a sixty-seven-year gulf.

  And she must have just done it, wherever she is now. He’d scrutinized the wall next to this mural yesterday, hoping for something, anything, to let him know Rosie was still alive. Now he almost wished he hadn’t.

  No. “Help me Daddy” wasn’t good, obviously, but it meant that at least as of yesterday, she was still alive, and on the fortieth floor of Columbia tower, at least briefly. There was hope.

  All thoughts of his pilot in the safe room and his post-food-riot duties have to go on the back burner. Rosie needs him. He still doesn’t know how Sarah figures into all this. And why had Rosie planted magazines inside Safeco’s office wall from September of 2007? It’s his best clue, so at least he knows where he needs to start.

  David doesn’t stop to comm ahead. He rushes down the south stairwell. He knows they’ll be there, waiting for him, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’s their job.

  Beverly is on guard duty. She levels her weapon when he bursts out of the stairwell but lowers it quickly. “Sir,” she barks, snapping a salute.

  David flashes her a quick one in return. “Get me scanned in. I don’t have a moment to waste.”