“That’s the beauty of privacy,” Dominic says. “It’s not tied to any names. Your soul fingerprint is the username and password. The banking system merely searches for the match. The money is just sitting there, waiting to be retrieved.” That way, either life can retrieve the cash. Nothing else may be passed along. No messages, no notes, no confessions or last words. Just a sum of cash. Nearly everyone checks it on their eighteenth birthday, because why not?
But I’m not eighteen and I’m not in a bank, and if I were, surely I would be arrested before I could get the money, regardless.
Surely June would’ve been arrested had she walked in to make a deposit.
“That’s it?” I ask. “You just want the money?” It’s a price to pay for my escape, I suppose. It’s not really mine, anyway. Honestly, I could use it. But I’m not June, and I don’t want her blood money.
“No,” he says. “But we’re going to need the money.”
We’re on the run, after all. Money is necessary for survival. I understand this on some academic level, but I’ve never had it, and I’ve never needed it. But it must have cost them a considerable amount of money to pull off that escape.
“I owe you money, though. Isn’t that right? How much do I owe you?” I ask.
I want there to be a price—a price I can pay and be free. But nobody responds as I crawl onto the table and hike my shirt up to my ribs and pull my knees to my chest, like I’ve seen done on television a hundred times before. I’ve had this procedure done three times, but I don’t remember any of them. The first, when they were searching for June. The second time, by request of my parents, to double-check. Dumb hope. The third, by request of the state when I was placed in their care.
June Calahan, every time.
When I was younger, I tried to prove I wasn’t her in other ways: June was right-handed, so I sat on my right hand and wrote with my left, until it felt natural. Left-and right-handedness transferred at a correlation of .99, and so I fought it. I refused to study the things June was good at, skimming over math problems and pretending I didn’t see the patterns in the IQ test. I was quiet when she was loud, and I stayed far away from anything she liked to do, according to all the documentaries.
Didn’t matter.
Still June.
Even though I don’t remember having this procedure done, I’ve seen it enough on TV.
Every year, there are at least three movies that deal with the “what ifs” of soul science. Like when DNA, and all its implications, was discovered, and there were movies on human cloning and scary government regulations and selecting for perfect traits and an end to life as we knew it. None of which happened. Life stayed pretty much the same, and science was pretty much used for the betterment of all: disease prevention, genetic screening, criminal evidence. Sometimes there’d be news of a couple who screened their embryos for a perfect match for their sick child, and there’d be some ethical debate about it, but mostly people did what they did for their loved ones. It was all still a matter of privacy. And sometimes there was more knowledge than we really wanted. Did we really want to know if we were going to die from a horrible disease? Did it change anything, other than provide a ticking clock? And that was something that privacy law protected as well. It’s your decision to check such things. It’s only your information to know.
And this is no different. It exists, and we know it, and there are movies about understanding the nature of the soul, of quantifying and labeling people, and there are movies about souls trying to reach some nirvana, and about illegal screening and revenge scenarios and government plots, none of which have happened. No, I am the only mistake.
So I know what to do, to pull my legs up so my spine sticks out, so they can ease the needle between my vertebrae and extract the clear liquid from the base of my spine, that they can run through the spectrometer and see the color spectrum the marker of the soul emits, in a pattern that is unique to itself. Like a fingerprint.
I wonder what mine looks like. If it’s all blues and purples, which is how I feel inside. Whether the colors mean anything. Personality. Predisposition. Good. Evil.
DNA was just a combination and pattern of nucleotides before we knew what they stood for, too.
I expect it to be Dominic who sticks a needle in my back, but he goes to the computer and his fingers fly across the keyboard. “Casey already has us remotely on site.” I’m surprised to hear this, that she’s the one who hacked into the bank. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want it to be her. “All we need is your username and passcode.”
I feel something cool against my lower spine. And then the sharp smell of alcohol. “Hold very, very still,” she says, and even Dominic stops typing. I feel a sharp pinch, and then pressure, so unlike when Cameron extracted the tracker from my rib, but at least it was a hurt I could quantify. This becomes a pull, the feeling that my nerves are moving in a way they shouldn’t. It feels so very, very wrong.
“There,” she says, and I feel the needle slide out from between my vertebrae. She applies pressure and tapes something over the top. I push myself up, but she puts a hand on my shoulder. “No, you need to lie still for a bit.”
Casey carries a small vial filled with a clear liquid over to the rectangular machine, removes the beaker, and slips the test tube over the pin.
“Were you left anything?” I ask, because every piece of information is useful. The type of people they were, the type of people they are. I can use it all.
“No,” Dominic says, and he looks exceptionally angry by the fact that his soul must’ve had loved ones, must’ve had a family or friends or a cause to donate to.
“Not me,” Casey says.
I stare at Cameron, but he doesn’t answer. “He never checked,” Casey says. “He doesn’t want to know.”
“You could be a millionaire,” I say, just to bait him into speaking.
He turns to me, tilts his head to the side, and says, “But I’m not.” He holds my gaze as I lie on the cot, and I let his words sink in. But I’m not.
“There,” Dominic says. Casey and Cameron crowd around the computer screen, and I can’t see anything from this cot. “What the hell?” Dominic says.
“What?” I ask, pushing myself onto my elbows.
Dominic spins in his chair, narrows his eyes at me as if I have somehow done something to him. “It’s just change. Goddamn pennies.”
Which makes me even sadder. That June felt the need to leave something to me, first of all, and that this was all she had left.
“Where is the money?” Dominic yells, as if I might know. Sure, June and Liam allegedly took in a lot of cash through the blackmail, but who knows what she did with it for the year and a half she was in hiding? Maybe she needed it. Maybe she gave it away. I let the sliver of hope work its way in that maybe she gave it back.
“Maybe Liam had it,” I say, but Dominic rolls his eyes. I know, June was said to take off with it after his death, because none was found with him, but who knows if that was true.
“What’s the point?” he asks, pointing at the screen. “What’s the goddamn point? She even went through the trouble to make two deposits. Two. Pointless. Deposits.”
I stand then, even though I feel the pressure drop from my head. I feel dizzy, but the screen beyond Dominic’s head sharpens into focus. “Thirty-five dollars and thirty-one cents,” he says. “Oh, look, another eighty-three. Wow.”
“83.65,” I say, because I see something he does not. I see the screen of the GPS as we were hiking—the numbers and decimals—and I feel someone whispering to me, someone real. It’s the closest to June that I’ve ever been, right here, staring at those numbers. She’s telling me something. Something only I see in this moment.
No, I’m not the only one who sees. Cameron’s eyes are soft and focused, and he slides them over to me for a second. He sees it too. I shake my head at him, just the barest shake. But Cameron leans forward and puts his finger on the screen. He seems to change his mind, because he pulls back and says, “Dinner on June tonight?”
But not even Casey laughs.