“Tell me about your little sister.”
She fills her lungs with air, and holds the breath for a moment before she lets it slowly release. “Lemy is seven years old. She has a language disorder and doesn’t understand simple instructions like go get your shoes, or directions like over and under. Her real name is Reagan.” Farrington smiles. “We call her Lemy because when she was three the only way we could get her to stop crying was to promise her her favorite drink—lemonade. She loved it so much she referred to herself as Lemy. She was a late talker and had never even said her name before then. ‘Lemy, lemy!’ she’d say with a giggle when we put some in her sippy cup. She’s never used her given name to this day, and she can’t differentiate between our names—Rachel and Reagan. When we used to try to explain that Reagan is her name, she’d say no, point to me and say, ‘Waychul,’ then to herself and say, ‘Lemy.’”
Her joy talking about Lemy disappears. “She won’t know what to do when Miguel lets her off the streetcar—if he does. She won’t be able to talk to anyone—no one will understand her—everything she says is sort of garbled and can only be translated by me or my mom. She’ll be terrified, too, and won’t know what to do in the middle of thousands of people in the dark, all of them in costumes.”
Farrington’s breath starts to labor. “Jesus, she can’t just be released into the middle of the city! You can’t let that happen!” She grabs my arms. “Whatever happens, you have to make sure she’s the priority! Promise me, no matter what happens, you’ll keep my little sister safe.”
“I’ll keep you both safe.”
“But if comes down to a choice, and you have to choose between her or me—promise me you’ll save her.”
I hesitate for a second.
“PROMISE ME!”
“I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” It’s a warning. “When my dad died, my mom and I were devastated. She stayed in a depressed stupor for almost two years, and I sank myself into academics. Then she had a one-night stand and got pregnant with Lemy. She felt like the baby was a gift from my dad. Lemy was a little miracle—she saved us both—she brought joy and happiness back. She made us strong again. She gave us something to live for and hold on to.”
“Even your course of study—”
“All about her,” Farrington confirms. “What about you, Ryder? What’s your story?”
“There isn’t much to tell.” I change direction and go back to arranging the rest of the supplies.
“I highly doubt that, Ryder Axton.” Farrington calls me on it. “You’re a walking shrine. You seem to know everything, you have incredibly honed powers of deductive reasoning and situational awareness, you’re trained like a soldier, and . . . yeah, must not be much to tell.” That last bit comes out with a dose of contempt.
“I don’t . . . talk a lot, Farrington.”
“You talk plenty.”
“There are circumstances better left in the past.”
“But you chose to scar your body with ink so you can be reminded every moment of every day of exactly what happened. And maybe half of your bravado is actually trying to make up for something you weren’t able to succeed at.” Her voice is like a whip. “Never mind, it’s my fault. It’s none of my fucking business, and I don’t know why I thought I even had the right to ask you. How audacious of me—I forget that when you ask me about myself, it’s not to get to know me—which by the way we’re running out of time in that department—it’s really just to figure out your next move.”
“Farrington,” I say softly.
“You still can’t even say my name! I thought we had something deeper . . . going on . . . I was wrong.” She heads to the bathroom.
“Wait!” I bark angrily, but I’m only angry at myself. “You’re right. One hundred percent. I don’t talk about those things—I wear them.”
“Painful.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t know how to talk about it. I never have.”
“You never have?”
“Not to the psychs I had to sit in front of for hours on end, not to my brothers from the group home I lived in for over a year, not to any girl I’ve been attracted to, not a soul.”
Her demeanor quiets and becomes thoughtful. “I’m sorry, Ryder.”
“No. I didn’t want to be closed off with you. You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to open myself up to—and our relationship is obviously not the conventional type.” I set up my laptop that’s bedded inside its military grade case. “I’ve been closed for so long, I don’t know where to start.”
“How about at the beginning?”