“I’m fine.” I pass a hand across my forehead. It comes away wet. I’m sweating.
“Are you sure?” She moves as though to come into the room, but at the last second remains in the doorway. “You cried out.”
“I’m sure,” I say. And then, because she seems to be expecting more: “Nerves, I guess, about the wedding.”
“There’s nothing at all to be nervous about,” she says, sounding annoyed. “Everything’s under control. It will all work beautifully.”
I know she is talking about more than the ceremony itself. She means the marriage in general: It has been tabulated and coordinated—made to work beautifully, engineered for efficiency and perfection.
My mother sighs. “Try and get some sleep,” she says. “We’re going to a church at the labs with the Hargroves at nine thirty. The final dress fitting’s at eleven. And there’s the interview for House and Home.”
“Good night, Mom,” I say, and she withdraws without closing the door. Privacy means less to us than it once did: another unanticipated benefit, or side effect, of the cure. Fewer secrets.
At least, fewer secrets in most cases.
I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. Although the fan is on, I still feel overheated. For a second, when I look into the mirror, I can almost see Lena’s face staring at me from behind my eyes—a memory, a vision of a buried past.
Blink.
She’s gone.
Lena
Alex is not back when Raven, Tack, Julian, and I return to the safe house. Julian has revived and has insisted he is fine to walk, but Tack keeps an arm around his shoulders anyway. Julian is unsteady on his feet and still bleeding freely. As soon as we reach the safe house, Bram and Hunter babble excitedly about what happened until I give them the dirtiest look I can. Coral comes to the doorway, blinking sleepily, one arm around her stomach.
Alex is not back by the time we’ve cleaned Julian off—“Broken,” he says with a wince, in a thick voice, when Raven skates a finger over the bridge of his nose—and he is not back by the time we all, finally, lie down in our cots with our thin blankets, and even Julian manages to sleep, breathing noisily through his mouth.
By the time we wake up, Alex has already come and gone. His belongings are missing, as well as a jug of water and one of the knives.
He has left nothing except for a note, which I find neatly folded under one of my sneakers.
The Story of Solomon is the only way I know how to explain.
And then, in smaller letters:
Forgive me.
Hana
Thirteen days until the wedding. The presents have already begun to trickle in: soup bowls and salad tongs, crystal vases, mountains of white linen, monogrammed towels, and things I’ve had no name for before now: ramekins; zesters; pestles. This is the language of married, adult life, and it is completely foreign to me.
Twelve days.
I sit and write thank-you cards in front of the television. My father leaves at least one TV on practically all the time now. I wonder if this is partly because he wants to prove that we can afford to waste electricity.
For what seems like the tenth time today, Fred steps onto the screen. His face is tinged orange with foundation. The sound is muted, but I know what he is saying. The news has been broadcasting and rebroadcasting the announcement about the Department of Energy and Power, and Fred’s plans for Black Night.
On the night of our wedding, one-third of the families in Portland—anyone suspected of sympathizing or resisting—will be plunged into darkness.
The lights burn bright for those who obey; the others will live in shadow all the days of their lives (The Book of Shhh, Psalm 17). Fred used that quote in his speech.
Thank you for the lace-edged linen napkins. They are exactly what I would have chosen for myself.
Thank you for the crystal sugar bowl. It will look perfect on the dining room table.
The doorbell rings. I hear my mother head to the door, and the murmur of muffled voices. A moment later, she comes into the room, red-faced, agitated.
“Fred,” she says as he steps into the room behind her.
“Thank you, Evelyn,” he says in a clipped voice, and she takes it as a cue to leave us. She closes the door behind her.
“Hi.” I climb to my feet, wishing I were wearing something other than an old T-shirt and ratty shorts. Fred is dressed in dark jeans and a white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. I feel his eyes sweep over me, absorbing my messy hair, the rip in the hem of my shorts, the fact that I am wearing no makeup. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He doesn’t say anything. There are two Freds looking at me now, screen-Fred and the real thing. Screen-Fred is smiling, leaning forward, easy and relaxed. The real Fred stands stiffly, glaring at me.