In her braver moments, she wanted to be happy for him. To find anyone again after what had happened was nothing short of a miracle. What would she give if Rojan could come back? But this was different. Zhang had added to Naz’s life, but she had taken Max’s place in his.
House 47 was full of a group of university students from Memphis who had walked to New Orleans because some of them used to have parents who lived in Metairie. They all knew one another pretty well and let Naz keep to herself. That was good. She signed on for a few extra shifts on the wall, and decided to spend some time with Malik before he left, which he was convinced would be soon, despite the fact that nothing he’d brought to Gajarajan had been anywhere near the “indisputable proof” he needed to be able to go. She almost went to him after she put her clothes in House 47 and signed up for his crazy mission, too, but she stopped herself on the walk over. It would have been for the wrong reasons. She would have been doing it to punish Zhang, to force his hand in choosing.
In truth, she knew she probably should have done it. She should have forced it. Max was his wife. If Naz was on the road for five, six months, it would make everything a lot easier. She’d come back, and it would be over. Maybe then she’d go out again, and just keep going out every time another mission was ready. But it turned out she didn’t have the guts. Or maybe she had too much hope. Impossible hope. But she also was watching the impossible happen right in front of her.
It should have been the most romantic story in the world: wife loses her memory and disappears, husband traverses the country, braving wilderness and war to find her, against million-to-one odds. Naz was sure that Zhang prayed every night that Max wasn’t dead, that he’d really be with her once more, never actually believing any of it was possible. Otherwise, none of this between he and Naz would have happened. He was the one who leaned forward to kiss her that night in her room, not she. He thought he finally had to forget Max, because she was never coming back.
Except here she was. And she remembered.
Orlando Zhang
ORY WAS SURPRISED TO SEE THAT THE ENTRANCE TO THE sanctuary had no door.
“I guess I’d just assumed,” he said to Gajarajan. They were standing inside the first great hall, all of Ory and half of him. Gajarajan’s body remained outside, on the other side of the altar. Over the top of the wall, draped like thin black tulle and then trailing across the ground to where it sat upright against the entrance beside Ory, was his shadow. “Usually places where humans live have doors.”
Gajarajan considered. “I suppose the places where elephants live don’t,” he said, and ruffled his ears. “There are only two doors in the entire sanctuary.” For a moment, he continued to ponder the idea in silence. Then the shape of his massive head angled slightly more toward Ory, the curved tusks disappearing as they turned from semi-profile into straight on. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked gently. “Yes,” Ory lied, and tried to smile, but he just felt ill. It seemed clammy inside the great hall, nothing like the sweltering heat outside. Keep it together, he reminded himself, and forced his teeth to stop chattering. His fingers found and squeezed the square outline of his wallet through his trouser pocket for strength, where the fossil of Max’s photograph lay tucked inside. He still had it, even after so many months and miles—although it had long faded beyond anything recognizable. He’d crossed states, fought in wars, fallen into moving lakes, and now it was no more than a gray slip of paper with a vague, human-shaped smudge at the center. Almost as if it had slowly become a portrait of Max’s shadow rather than of her.
“I can imagine this is . . . an intense moment,” Gajarajan finally said. “To be able to meet your wife again.”
Ory managed to nod. “Were you married before?”
“No,” the shadow said. “Not really.”
Ory looked down. It had seemed like a strange choice of words, but then he realized it wasn’t at all. Not really had in fact meant yes. “I’m sorry,” he replied.
“Don’t be. I don’t remember.” Gajarajan shrugged softly, such a subtle and human gesture.
Ory didn’t know if he’d ever get used to seeing it. It had taken him forever to be able to look at a person with no shadow. Now there was a shadow that moved all on its own.
“I’m going to get you settled first, and make sure you’re comfortable and prepared,” Ory realized Gajarajan was saying. “Then we’ll bring Max in.”
“How is she doing?” he blurted out.
“Very well,” Gajarajan replied. “The body was in bad shape when it arrived. Dehydrated, exhausted. It was very difficult, the rejoining—you know how dangerous it can be. I didn’t know if it was going to take. But it did. Now she’s healthy, happy—and ready to meet you again. She remembers you.”
Ory did his best to nod. It seemed beyond believable—that the single shadowless Gajarajan had been able to save out of all of them so far was Max—his Max. He was still too afraid to fully believe it.