“You call that an answer?” yells the man in back. “You think it’s enough that—”
Something clatters. Echoes off the ringing walls and we jerk, all of us, twisting for a better view. Bodies shift, the crowd opens, and through the newly formed gaps stands Niles. Hair gone messy, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes wide with his shocked mouth. “Aw, hell, sorry!” he says to the man kneeling on the floor at his side. There’s a mess of gear on the tile, metal bits of black and gray strewn everywhere.
Niles fumbles to help and kicks a disc across the floor. “I really hope it wasn’t expensive!”
The kneeling man swears in the faceless guy’s voice. “Yes. It was.”
“Shit, hold up!” Niles snatches a bigger boxy piece from the tech-scattered floor. “This isn’t the Vidfire 9800, is it? The digirecorder all the big newsfeed stations use?” He looks up and across the crowd for half a heartbeat.
Our eyes meet.
“It is!” he continues, hitting the man with a huge enthused grin. “Aw, man, I’ve been saving up for one of these!”
The crowd straightens, glares finding a new target. A growing murmur of “He’s filming this?” and “I thought this was for family?” and “Who did he lose?”
I step back. No one notices. I could be out of the building before they realize I’ve gone.
Except they’re not gawkers, they’re family.
I stand, feet planted, back straight, and say, “I’m here.”
But Niles makes a racket with the man’s gear, and my voice is too tight. Too small.
“I’m right here,” I yell. It ricochets, ceiling to heartbeats to floor, and I command the room. Can almost taste their shock and their growing tinge of anger. Even Niles’s exasperation. What are you doing? he mouths.
I ignore him.
“You wanted me,” I tell the crowd. “And here I am. Shoot.”
The mother turns, eyes flashing, whole face set in a growl. She steps forward and socks me.
I stagger. My cheekbone screams. Dee never hit me with such strength, but then her hands were always open, not fists.
And hers didn’t imprint my soul.
The woman stands frozen, hand high from the recoil, mouth open like someone paused her midfeed.
Niles jumps to his feet, steps forward. I catch his eye and mouth a harsh Stay. He stops.
This isn’t his place. This is between me and the families.
I don’t have the answers they need or the people they lost.
I only have me.
I straighten, lock my hands behind me, and brace for the next blow.
The woman looks at her hand, the open-palmed emptiness of it, the soft fingers that belie strength. She lifts her head. I hold her gaze, but that feels like a challenge so I switch to the floor.
The woman wears practical shoes. Brown and low heeled, laced tight. They peek from under gray, practical slacks. Maybe her daughter’s shoes were practical as well. Maybe they were vibrant.
I hold my breath. Fight the scream, the waxing panic, the needles in my feet.
The waiting hurts.
She hurts worse.
Her hand falls to her side. I look up. The light catches in her too-shiny eyes. “You’re a baby, too, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say.
Today, I’m ancient.
“I can’t do this.” She turns and pushes through the crowd. Jerky steps and squeezed elbows. Her back a silhouette against the aching protest of the outer door, and then she’s gone.
The crowd’s fire goes with her, its spirit caught in her wake. Our silence a shuffle of fabric and feet.
Everyone dissipates, files out, even the man with the busted gear. Niles skirts the crowd’s shifting edges. He doesn’t pause or say a word, just takes my hand and pulls.
“That was a setup.” Niles burns his streethover around corners and down thoroughfares. “A goddamn publicity stunt. You know how expensive that digirecorder was? I’m serious about the newsfeed stations, I’ve seen their gear. How they’d know you’d be—”
“Mr. Remmings,” I say.
Good employees are dedicated to preserving the museum, and what better way to generate income? I’m sure somebody paid him. He was never going to hire me back.
And my daughter’s passing? When they pulled her charred body out of the wreckage? What would Gilken say about that?
“Your boss set you up?” Niles asks.
“Skip it.” I lean into the heat of the open window, hold the ends of Yonni’s scarf so it doesn’t blow away.
Niles’s tiny streethover predates Mrs. Divs and has her taste in color. A tacky gold box with big windows, few curves and little heft. A strong gust could blow us away.
“No, this we don’t skip,” Niles nearly shouts. “Someone must have tracked down all those families to pull this job. Do you have any idea how bad things could have gone? God, when you just stood there—”
“You can stop yelling anytime.”
“I’m not yelling!”
I catch his gaze as we pause at an intersection and raise a brow.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’m yelling.”
Traffic clears and he jumps us forward, anger humming with the engine. But with the windows down his hair is a mess, and windswept does not invoke rampage.
“What are you smiling about?” he snaps.