My invader doesn’t answer, but I know it’s there, lurking. Why this memory? I ask. Why did you pick this one?
The fingertips of my right hand begin to tingle, and the sensation intensifies until it’s almost a burning. I stare at my hand, stretching out my fingers. They look no different, but the tingle continues like a command. On instinct, I trail my fingers lightly along my forehead and down my cheek in a slow, soothing gesture, like an apology. The ache in my chest releases its hold, and my next breath comes easier.
The tingling in my fingers fades, and I’m left alone, puzzled, missing Linus. My heart feels raw where a frost of protection has thawed.
I don’t want to be thinking about Linus and how much he means to me. He isn’t what brought me here to this cave. I have my family to worry about. Yet now, something in my own mind has thrust him forward again, as if my feelings for him are central to everything. I pull up my knees and sink my head down into my arms.
I don’t need some other force inside me pulling up sensitive memories and toying with my emotions. Whatever this tingly starlight presence is in me, it needs to understand who’s boss.
14
LIGHT FROM A POTATO
WHEN WHISTLER COMES LATER with a tray of food, I’m back on my bed, just waking again. My blanket’s twisted around me, and my green scrubs smell musty. I’ve completely lost track of time, and my eyes feel smudged and puffy, as if from crying. His soft, aimless whistling sounds incongruously optimistic.
“Your cheek looks better. How are you feeling?” Whistler says.
I push up onto my elbow, and the heavy, chill scent of the stone walls invades me again. “Like crap. Where’s my sister?”
He angles the tray on the desk, facing me. “She’s safe with the others,” he says. He absently adjusts his earpiece, aiming the microphone nub toward his mouth. “We didn’t mine her, if that’s what’s worrying you. Just had a little look. Her dreams are very nice. Not the same caliber as yours, but that’s no surprise.”
“What about my parents? Where are they?”
“I have no idea,” Whistler says. “Berg isn’t the type to keep all his eggs in one basket.”
“So they weren’t delivered with Dubbs?” I say.
Whistler shakes his head slowly and rubs his chin. “Nope. Dubbs came alone. You should really eat. You need your strength. Aren’t you hungry?”
I’m starved. He’s brought me a pita sandwich with fresh cucumbers, cheddar cheese, tomato, and creamy mayo, and I can’t stuff it in fast enough. I gulp down half a glass of ice water. Then I rip open a bag of chips and nearly swoon at the salty crispiness. There’s a brownie with some chewy caramel in it, and I devour that, too.
“You like chocolate? I made those myself,” he says. He pulls the chair from the desk and sits awkwardly across from the bed.
I close my eyes, savoring the sweetness. “They’re good,” I admit. “How do you guys get food down here?”
“We have groceries delivered upstairs,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “If there’s anything special you want, let me know and I can get it for you.”
I lower my brownie. He’s implying that I’ll be staying awhile.
“You mined me, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Just a little,” he says, and eyes me closely. “Can you tell?”
Something’s different. That’s for sure. “Yes. How long have I been down here?”
“Two days? Yes. Two.”
I can’t believe this is happening to me again. I glance behind him to the door, which is closed again. I didn’t see him lock it from the inside, but that doesn’t mean it’ll open. I wonder what it would take to get past him.
“What you’re doing down here can’t possibly be legal,” I say.
“Well, it’s not illegal,” Whistler says slowly. “The pre-dead are all slated for harvesting. We pay for them fair and square.”
Pre-dead. I haven’t heard that term before. I guess that’s what’s kept in a pre-morgue.
“Except my sister and me,” I say.
He purses out his lips, like he might whistle, but then he doesn’t. “You represent a turning point, I admit,” he says.
Anger hardens inside me.
Without another word, he produces a little paper cup and sets it on my tray. It contains a small white pill suspiciously like the kind Orly gave us students back at Forge to make us sleep for twelve hours every night.
As Whistler glances away, evading my direct gaze, I have my first glimpse of his resemblance to Ian. Where Ian is all protruding eyes and soft lips and wispy blond hair, Whistler has subdued, even features and normal brown hair. He’s sturdier, with more bulk to match his maturity, and despite his hint of chagrin as he looks away from me, he still exudes a quiet confidence that’s more refined than Ian’s contrived, boastful manner. He has changed into a different set of clothes, a matching gray set of shirt and trousers, and his helmet is cocked at a jaunty angle on his head, so the headlamp looks like an unlit third eye.
I can feel him waiting for me to ask about the pill. Instead, I take another slow bite of my brownie.
“Who controls the dragon?” I ask.
“Pardon?” he says.
“I mean the special effects upstairs, by the Keep of Ages,” I say. “How’d you make it look like Dubbs fell from the plank?”
He tilts his head curiously. “The cameras were down when you came to the park. I didn’t see your arrival or anything unusual with the dragon. You saw the dragon in action?”
“Yes. And my sister. Or an effect that looked just like my sister. She fell off a plank from the roof of the keep, and the dragon scooped her up and flew away. It was terrifying.”
“That’s a little odd.” Whistler gazes at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Back in the day, when the park was up and running, the special effects team could do anything they wanted. They frightened the bejesus out of the guests. Ian likes to tinker with the old programs when he’s here.”
“But you said he’s not here.”
“He’s not,” Whistler says. “I don’t have an explanation. Perhaps Ian put a show on a timer, so to speak.”
I hardly think so. It was too perfectly timed to my movements. “Kiri said the dragon brought me here,” I say. “You agreed with her.”
“I didn’t mean the dragon on the keep. It was more of a metaphor, like a monster in the machine,” he says. “We do have something unusual going on here lately, and I haven’t been able to track it down. We’ve had camera blackouts, and pressure changes that blow out the hoses. One day, a couple months back, five of the incubators in the storage room went off for no reason and then came back on again four hours later. We lost a ton of research. Jules nearly busted a gut.”
“What do you actually do down here?” I ask.
Whistler jogs up his helmet brim. “Me? I’m just a glorified handyman. The doctors do the actual research,” he says. “We started with simple data storage, but now we’re mostly experimenting with treatments for brain injuries, coma, Alzheimer’s, whatever. PTSD’s a big one. It’s all dream based. That’s our niche.”