Lying with girlfriends on a still-warm dock in upstate New York, watching shooting stars, is a sensation you remember after many years.
Hindsight creates the illusion that your life has led you inevitably to the present moment.
It’s easier to believe in a foregone conclusion than to accept that our lives are governed by chance.
Showing up for a robotics course by accident, because of a classroom mixup, is chance.
Finding an empty seat beside a boy with very dark skin and beautiful hands is chance.
When someone has become essential to you, you will marvel that you could have lain on a warm dock and not have known him yet.
Expect reimmersion in your old life to be difficult.
Experience leaves a mark, regardless of the reasons and principles behind it.
What our citizen agents most often require is simply for time to pass.
Our counsellors are available around the clock for the first two weeks of your reimmersion and during business hours thereafter.
We ask that you allow our Therapeutic Agents, rather than those in the general population, to address your needs.
Secrecy is the basis of what we do, and we require your extreme discretion.
Even preternatural swimming strength cannot propel you across a blue-black sea.
Staring with yearning ferocity from the end of a dock cannot propel you across a blue-black sea.
When your body has been granted exceptional powers, it is jarring to encounter a gulf between your desires and your abilities.
For millennia, engineers have empowered human beings to accomplish mythical feats.
Your husband is an engineer.
Children raised among wild animals learn to detect irregular movements in their landscape.
That particular awareness, coupled with scientific genius, has made your husband a national-security hero.
Intimacy with another human can allow you to scrutinize your surroundings as he would.
Along a rocky, moonlit shore, the irregular movement is the one that is lurching in time with the water beneath an overhang of brush.
A speedboat has most likely been hidden by your new host as a means of emergency escape.
The key will be inside it.
Slither between branches and board the boat; untie it and lower its motor into the water.
Be grateful for the lakes in upstate New York where you learned to pilot motorboats.
Fluff up your hair with your functional arm and essay a wide, carefree smile.
A smile is like a shield; it freezes your face into a mask of muscle that you can hide behind.
A smile is like a door that is both open and closed.
Turn the key and gun the motor once before aiming into the blue-black sea and jamming the accelerator.
Wave and giggle loudly at the stunned, sleepy guard.
Steer in a zigzag motion until you are out of gunshot range.
The exultation of escape will be followed almost immediately by a crushing onslaught of pain.
The house, its occupants, even the gunshots will seem like phantoms beside this clanging immediacy.
If the pain makes thought impossible, concentrate solely on navigation.
Only in specific Geographic Hotspots can we intervene.
While navigating toward a Hotspot, indicate an emergency by pressing the button behind your knee for sixty continuous seconds.
You must remain conscious.
If it helps, imagine yourself in the arms of your husband.
If it helps, imagine yourself in your apartment, where his grandfather’s hunting knife is displayed inside a Plexiglas box.
If it helps, imagine harvesting the small tomatoes you grow on your fire escape in summer.
If it helps, imagine that the contents of the Data Surge will help thwart an attack in which thousands of American lives would have been lost.
Even without enhancements, you can pilot a boat in a semi-conscious state.
Human beings are superhuman.
Let the moon and the stars direct you.
When you reach the approximate location of a Hotspot, cut the engine.
You will be in total darkness, in total silence.
If you wish, you may lie down at the bottom of the boat.
The fact that you feel like you’re dying doesn’t mean that you will die.
Remember that, should you die, your body will yield a crucial trove of information.
Remember that, should you die, your Field Instructions will provide a record of your mission and lessons for those who follow.
Remember that, should you die, you will have triumphed merely by delivering your physical person into our hands.
The boat’s movement on the sea will remind you of a cradle.
You’ll recall your mother rocking you in her arms when you were a baby.
You’ll recall that she has always loved you fiercely and entirely.
You’ll discover that you have forgiven her.
You’ll understand that she concealed your paternity out of faith that her own inexhaustible love would be enough.
The wish to tell your mother that you forgive her is yet another reason you must make it home alive.
You will not be able to wait, but you will have to wait.
We can’t tell you in advance what direction relief will come from.
We can only reassure you that we have never yet failed to recover a citizen agent, dead or alive, who managed to reach a Hotspot.
Hotspots are not hot.
Even a warm night turns frigid at the bottom of a wet boat.
The stars are always there, scattered and blinking.
Looking up at the sky from below can feel like floating, suspended, and looking down.
The universe will seem to hang beneath you in its milky glittering mystery.
Only when you notice a woman like yourself, crumpled and bleeding at the bottom of a boat, will you realize what has happened.
You’ve deployed the Dissociation Technique without meaning to.
There is no harm in this.
Released from pain, you can waft free in the night sky.
Released from pain, you can enact the fantasy of flying that you nurtured as a child.
Keep your body in view at all times; if your mind loses track of your body, it may be hard—even impossible—to reunite the two.
As you waft free in the night sky, you may notice a steady rhythmic churning in the gusting wind.
Helicopter noise is inherently menacing.
A helicopter without lights is like a mixture of bat, bird, and monstrous insect.
Resist the urge to flee this apparition; it has come to save you.
Know that in returning to your body you are consenting to be racked, once again, by physical pain.
Know that in returning to your body you are consenting to undertake a jarring reimmersion into an altered life.
Some citizen agents have chosen not to return.
They have left their bodies behind, and now they shimmer sublimely in the heavens.
In the new heroism, the goal is to transcend individual life, with its petty pains and loves, in favor of the dazzling collective.
You may picture the pulsing stars as the heroic spirits of former agent beauties.
You may imagine Heaven as a vast screen crowded with their dots of light.
If you wish to return to your body, it is essential that you reach it before the helicopter does.
If it helps, count backward.
By eight, you should be close enough to see your bare and dirty feet.
By five, you should be close enough to see the bloody dress wrapped around your shoulder.
By three, you should be close enough to see the dimples you were praised for as a child.