SOMETHING I’LL NEVER ADMIT TO YOU:
In those early days, when Hemu’s shadow magically disappearing still seemed like a miracle and not impending doom, I secretly wished it would happen to me, too, Ory. This was far before any cases appeared outside of India, back when it was only Hemu, and the Angels from, from . . . the Angels. Back when it was only Hemu and the Angels. It had just seemed magical then, and I wanted to be touched by the magic, too. I’m sure many people did, maybe even you. But the way I wanted it was different. I wanted it like a drowning man wants air. I wanted it so much that late at night, when you and the rest of Washington, D.C., were asleep, I’d creep out of our bedroom, go back downstairs, and turn on the television again, to stand in the bluish glow of the screen as ghostly images of Hemu Joshi dancing around the market played. I’d look at the dark simulacrum of myself stretched silently on the floor beside me.
“Disappear,” I begged it once, barely a whisper. I waited for some kind of a cold chill or moment of recognition, but my shadow just stayed there, flickering in the changing light of the television, unhearing. “Please disappear.”
When I think back about that, for however much longer I can, it makes me shiver. But none of us knew what was coming. Not for those first few days.
Of course, then we did. We saw what happened to Hemu, and I felt like a fool. Then it started to spread to Brazil and Nepal and Turkey and everywhere else. I told no one what I’d wished. I was terrified. I went to Paul and Imanuel’s wedding with you, and then it happened to Boston. I thought it was coming for me. That’s a stupid thing to say—it was coming for us all. But I felt like it was especially looking for me. I felt like it had heard me. I begged God or the universe or karma or whatever else it is that presides over the ominous phrase Be careful what you wish for to take pity on me for being selfish, for wanting more than my wonderful life already was. The stores and streetlights and telephone reception were all going down; people were wandering crying down the sidewalk in Arlington, completely lost and afraid because they couldn’t remember where they lived anymore or the words to ask for help; you almost got killed the first time you went out alone to steal food from the locked-up Fresh Shoppe; and all I could think was, I had asked for this. I had asked.
Am I far enough away from you yet to keep you safe? I don’t think I could ever be far enough, even if I ran until I reached the West Coast. You spent so much time after it happened to me wondering why some people lose their shadows and not others. Why it was mine instead of yours. Every time you asked, I always said that I didn’t have any idea either. That I don’t know if there is an answer. And that’s partially right—no one knows for sure. But what I’m terrified might be true, what I’m too afraid to say out loud to you, Ory my love, is that maybe it happened to me because at one time, for one brief moment, I had wanted it to happen . . . And my shadow knew it, too.
Orlando Zhang
IT WAS A STRAIGHT SHOT UP NEW HAMPSHIRE AVENUE, THE finder said. But it was dangerous. There were a few shadowless there, sometimes forgetting things like streets or turns, so they’d have to run. Ory didn’t care.
“Keep up” was the finder’s only warning. Then they were sprinting.
They cut through crumbling concrete and skirted buildings the finder thought were inhabited. Ory saw movement in the darkness of alleys and braced for attacks each time as they darted past. Keep up. Their deserted mountain was one thing, but how had Max made it through a place like this, alone, and especially if she’d started to forget bigger things? It seemed impossible.
“Here!” the finder suddenly called back to Ory. The ruins of George Washington University loomed overhead. A monstrous gray skeleton. Frayed curtains flickered in one of the upper windows.
Ory slowed involuntarily. Something wasn’t right. Max would never come here. The buildings were too huge, too dark, too dangerous. Even if she’d forgotten where she was going, this was not the place she’d head for.
“What’s wrong?” the finder called over his shoulder, slowing but not stopping. Ory had to speed back up to stay with him. Together they swung wide around something body-shaped and still lying beneath a tarp, and kept running.
“I don’t know,” Ory panted.
“You want to find your wife?” the finder asked, waving an arm as he continued to jog closer to one of the cement overhangs. “I’m telling you, this is where I last saw her. We start looking here.”
“Max wouldn’t come here,” Ory said. “It’s not like her.”
“Well, exactly.”