But that didn’t really surprise me.
It was just like with Amanda and her tunnels. Where Sabine had gone, I couldn’t follow. Not yet, anyway. And not on this path.
I rested my head against the wall for a long moment. I was exhausted, drained of all energy, beaten down to a pulp.
Then I turned and headed back home.
Taylor heard me open the front door and met me in the entryway.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said. She looked tired. Her face was long, and every muscle in her cheeks and jaw had gone perfectly slack. “You’re soaking wet. Where did you go?”
“I was looking for Sabine.” Taylor’s eyes went wide with concern, and I paused for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. I didn’t want to tell her the truth. I didn’t think she could handle another loss. “I thought she might be across the street, but she’s not there. She’s probably with Mama Cass.”
Taylor nodded and dredged up a reassuring smile. “She’s a big girl, Dean. I’m sure she’s fine. We’ll all be fine.” Her voice was faint, and I could tell that she didn’t really believe what she was saying. She was just trying to be strong. For me.
I nodded. “I need to go change,” I said. “But save me some food, okay? I’m absolutely famished.” I forced a smile of my own. It felt wrong on my face—a weak and transparent lie.
Upstairs, I found Sabine’s duffel bag tucked beneath her bed. I gathered up all of her clothing and stuffed it inside, filling it nearly to overflowing. Then I crammed her drawing papers in on top. Charcoal words jumped out at me as I worked. They smeared beneath my damp fingertips—bold but so very, very fragile. And so very, very temporary.
By the time I was done, the room looked completely abandoned. The bed wasn’t made, but all trace of Sabine was gone, hastily packed away. I left the door wide open and fled back to my room. I wrapped the duffel bag inside a patchwork quilt and buried it in the back of my closet, beneath a stack of neatly folded bedding.
Then I stripped out of my wet clothes and collapsed naked onto the futon.
No one has to know, I told myself. Not Taylor, or Floyd, or Charlie. It would do them absolutely no good. It would cause them nothing but pain.
Sabine had been talking about leaving—I could tell them that. After meeting with the Poet, she’d gotten fed up. And, frustrated, she left. Without saying a word. It would be the most natural thing in the world.
And they’d believe it. They’d want to believe it. We were all tempted to leave. We stayed—we kept staying—but we knew it was wrong. We knew we should be packing up and hiking out of here.
Hell, my car was waiting just outside the city limits. I could gather up my cameras and go. Right now. I could be in the car in a matter of hours. I could be in Seattle by midnight.
My hands started shaking in my lap. I clenched them into fists and then shook them loose. Again. And then again. Clenched and released. Clenched and released. Finally, I fished my jacket from the floor and dug through its pockets, coming up with my bottle of Vicodin. After a moment’s hesitation, I popped open the lid and bolted down a couple of pills.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
21.1
Photograph. October 25, 12:11 A.M. Taylor, bound:
The shutter speed is wrong. Every edge is blurred slightly, giving the picture—a young woman sitting, bound, on the edge of a bed—a feathered, ephemeral quality. It is like the scene is moving, caught in transition.
The bedroom is lit in candlelight—a warm yellow, burning out of frame, somewhere to the woman’s left. Her clothing is disheveled; the shoulder of her hoodie has slipped down, exposing pale skin at her neck, between strands of wild black hair. Her hands and forearms are extended out in front of her body, bound together with loops of gray duct tape. There is tape across her mouth, too, stretching from ear to ear.
The woman’s eyes are wide, lashes and brow raised in fright. She is looking right back at the camera. Her entire world is focused on that one point in space and time—laser sharp and terrified. Her right cheek is lost in shadow; her left is glistening with tears.
21.2
We had red beans and rice for dinner. It was an instant mix that Taylor had found in the pantry. I didn’t have much of an appetite—my head was swimming, and the Vicodin made my arms and face feel heavy—but I ate anyway, trying to keep up appearances.
I didn’t say anything about Sabine. I wanted someone else to find her emptied room.
Now that the sky was once again normal—five o’clock and already pitch black, still raining hard—Floyd seemed calmer. He was still casting nervous glances toward the windows, but he was talking now and eating. It was probably just the oxycodone, but there were bursts of bubbly delirium mixed in with his chattering nerves.
“So, now that the world is over,” he asked, “what do you do?” He was addressing all of us at the table. His fork moved aimlessly through his food. “What’s your final meal? Your last words?”
“The world isn’t over,” Charlie replied, glancing up from his computer. His voice was subdued, but there was a hint of anger there, tamped down and carefully locked away. “Devon was lying. It was complete bullshit.”
“And the speed of light? The machine? The laser?”
“It was a fake. A hoax.” Charlie paused, and as I watched, something inside him changed. Slowly, his eyes went wide and his back straightened in his chair. “Or maybe, maybe what’s happening here affects perception. Maybe it just seems like the speed of light is changing, but really, really, it’s just an inability to measure things. Maybe there is something wrong with physics, but local and not at all catastrophic.” Charlie’s voice gathered speed as he went along. He was getting excited. “I bet my parents figured it out. I bet they’re out there right now, hunting down the source.”
Taylor shot me a concerned look. Her expression was grave, and there was a question in her eyes: What do we do? What do we do about Charlie?
“We don’t know anything,” I said, feeling an edge of annoyance starting to slip through my numb Vicodin shield. I turned toward Floyd and continued: “And as far as planning our last words, what’s the point? If it’s over, it’s over… There won’t be anyone left to hear. Or care. Or remember. Just words, floating through space.”
Taylor fixed me with a disapproving glare, and for a brief, surprisingly liberating moment I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself. But I stayed silent. I think I was pretty high by then.
That’s when Danny showed up.
“Hello?” the soldier called as he came in through the front door. I heard him shed his rain-drenched coat onto the entryway floor. Then he stuck his head into the dining room. He was wearing a ridiculously out-of-place fishing hat, and there was water dripping from its brim.
When he saw us there, sitting at the table, he flashed a broad smile. “If you’ve got the food, I brought the drinks,” he said, pulling a couple of bottles from a rainproof utility bag.
He glanced around the table and saw the serious expressions on our faces. His smile faltered briefly, quivering in confusion. Then it strengthened once again.
“C’mon, guys. It’s time to cheer the fuck up,” he said. “It’s time to celebrate!” He let out a brief laugh. “We figured it out. The military—your loyal military—we finally know what’s going on.”