Instead I gritted my teeth so hard that by morning, my jaw was stiff, my head ached, and I still didn’t have a solution. Talking hurt, thinking hurt, and I wasn’t in the mood to do either anymore.
I’d stayed up past dawn, replaying every moment of my interactions with Simon. No matter how I looked at it, the evidence was clear: The Original Simon was being influenced—guided—by his Echoes. He wasn’t the same person as they were. He hadn’t made the same choices. Left to his own devices, he never would have noticed me. His feelings were grounded in someone else’s memories. He’d never be able to trust them 100 percent, and neither could I.
But Simon understood me in a way that no one else did, saw things in me that everyone else overlooked. I wasn’t sure I was ready to give that up, even knowing the truth. Maybe eventually the self-doubt would ruin us, but for now . . . I couldn’t leave.
If there was a way to separate Simon and his Echoes so he wasn’t influenced by them, his true feelings would surface—and maybe they’d be strong enough that we could make it work.
I was willing to tell myself that, if it meant I could keep him.
But at the root of my fears was one undeniable fact. Simon was more tightly tied to the problems in the Key World than I’d ever guessed. If I was going to free him, I couldn’t do it alone.
Eliot always woke up before me. But I’d never gone to sleep, so for once I had the jump on him. I showed up at his house, coffee in hand, a few minutes after seven in the morning.
“Del!” said Mrs. Mitchell, giving me a hug. “Is my clock wrong?”
“I’m early,” I said. “Is Eliot ready?”
She glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. “I’m not sure he’s awake yet.”
“I’ll get him.” I headed upstairs, throwing open his door. “Wake up, genius boy. We have a problem.”
The lump on the bed stirred briefly.
“Eliot.” I crossed the room and poked at the covers. “Get up.”
“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, and pulled the blanket more tightly over his head.
“I’m not your mom,” I said, setting my coffee down. “And I hope you’re wearing pajamas.”
“Wha—”
Grabbing the covers in both hands, I yanked them straight off the bed and dropped them in a heap on the floor.
“Gah! Cold!”
“Glad to see you’re not naked. I pictured you as a boxers type of guy.”
“Del!” He shot out of bed, no shirt, navy boxer briefs snug enough that I looked the other direction. “What are you doing?”
“Wishing you’d put on some pants.” I kept my eyes closed and listened to the squeak of his dresser drawer. “Can I turn around?”
“It’s ten after seven. Why are you even awake?” He’d put on a pair of sweatpants, but he still wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“We have a problem.”
He took the coffee from me and drank half. “What did you do this time? Hold on. Don’t speak.” He shut the door and sat down at his desk. “Okay. Go.”
“How much do you know about SRT?”
“Synaptic Resonance Transfer?” He tipped his head back, studied the ceiling, and recited as if he had the page in front of him. “Common. Harmless. Confined to Originals and Echoes.”
“What about really extreme cases? Could an Original ever share consciousness with their Echo? Experience what their Echo is doing in real time?”
“SRT that strong would present as some kind of mental illness. Schizophrenia, maybe, or some sort of psychotic break. Trying to process the experiences of so many Echoes would burn out their synapses.”
Simon wasn’t experiencing all of his Echoes’ lives—only the ones who ran into me.
“Theoretically, it’s an interesting problem, but I’ve never heard of it happening,” he said.
Eliot would hear about that kind of thing.
“You think you found someone with advanced SRT?” He scrambled out of the chair, thrilled at the prospect. “That’s beyond awesome, Del. The Consort will love it!”
Somehow I doubted the Consort would look favorably on my actions. I picked up the battered old recorder Eliot kept on his desk, played the first few notes of “Greensleeves.”
“You’re not acting like it’s awesome.” He folded his arms across his bare chest. “What did you do?”
“Why do you assume it was me?”
“Because you’re up at the crack of dawn, you look like death, and you’re about to turn my recorder into kindling.” Gently he pried my fingers off the instrument. “Tell me.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, and he joined me, slinging an arm over my shoulders.
“Remember how I told you something was off with Simon?”
Eliot tensed. “I checked his frequency. There’s nothing special about him.”
“He’s sharing memories with his Echoes,” I said. “Not just feelings. Memories. Entire events. Special enough?”
Eliot whistled, long and low. “He told you this?”
I shifted. “Kind of.”
“Kind of? Did he say, ‘Funny thing, I keep having crazy super-detailed déjà vu’?”
“It came up in conversation.”
“Hell of a conversation,” he said tightly. “Fine. He has SRT. Why is this a problem for us?”
“When I interact with one of Simon’s Echoes, his Original zones out. He thinks he’s dreaming, but he’s actually seeing through his Echo’s eyes.”
Eliot’s face went cool and remote, analyzing my words. “And he’s seeing you.”
I picked at a loose thread on my sweater. “His Echoes notice me. They remember me. When I go back, they ask where I’ve been.”
“Why would you go back?” There was a long, excruciating silence, and then he jerked away from me. “You’re hooking up with his Echo.”
I cringed. “I know, I know. I’m a horrible person. Can we focus on what’s important here, please?”
“This is important. You promised me you wouldn’t Walk by yourself. You gave me your word.”
I covered my face with my hands.
“I don’t understand. They’re not even real.” He sprang up, disgust lacing his words. “Why would you do it?”
How could I explain that the rush I got from being with Simon was nearly as strong as the thrill of Walking? Better, even. When I Walked, I felt free, but the Consort could snatch it away at any moment. With Simon, I was myself, and it was enough, and that was a kind of freedom I’d never had before.
“He makes me happy.”
“Happy?” Eliot’s mouth twisted like he’d tasted something foul. “You risked your entire future for him. Our future.”
“Our future?” I looked at him, misery and betrayal written across his face, feet braced wide and arms folded like he was trying to ward off a blow or hold one back.
“Oh, Eliot.” I pressed a fist against my heart. “I didn’t—” I didn’t know, I’d been about to say, but that was a lie. I hadn’t wanted to know.
“You’ve thought about it. You must have thought about it. We’re good together. We’re an amazing team, Del. Everyone says so. Even you.”
“We’re the best,” I said, cutting him off, afraid to hear any more. We couldn’t undo this conversation. We couldn’t forget it. And I knew, with a sickening certainty, it would change us in ways I never wanted. “It doesn’t mean . . .”
“I’m the best when you need help. When you need someone to cover for you, or fix a problem. I’m good enough to use, but not enough to love,” he spat.