When he finally caught his breath, the rain had slowed. He was thankful for that. But a thought occurred to him—the rain was his only source of fresh water. If it stopped, he’d die of thirst before he starved to death. That was all from Daniele’s crash course in survivaclass="underline" generally, a person could survive for three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, and three weeks without food. Every person’s body was different, but those were a good rough estimate.
His survival books had made it clear that he couldn’t survive on seawater alone. The salt was the problem. To clear excess salt from the body, the body combines the salt with water and excretes it as urine. The trouble was that saltwater was too salty. It didn’t contain enough water for the body to clear the salt. So, with each gulp of seawater, the body would use more of its store of water to clear the salt it took in. As Sam drank more seawater, he would become more dehydrated. Eventually, without fresh water to replenish what his body had lost clearing the salt, his kidneys and other organs would fail completely.
As such, when the rain stopped, he kept his mouth shut and hoped he saw land soon.
Floating on the sea, it was easy for Sam to imagine giving up. Simply taking off the outfit and letting the ocean take him. That was easier than fighting. But he had something to fight for. A reason to survive.
He imagined himself stepping out of the Absolom machine, holding his arms wide, reaching out and bracing himself as Adeline and Ryan ran to him. That mental image—of reuniting with his children—was his anchor in this harsh wilderness. They were his hull against the waves. He hung on for them, for a future that might not happen, but one he could never give up on.
Slowly, the night sky faded, and the stars dissolved as the sun rose.
In the light of day, Sam rolled off his back and worked his arms in the water and spun and gazed in every direction.
But all he saw was water and waves. And not a single sign of Pangea’s coast.
TWENTY
That afternoon, Adeline visited Constance.
As she walked up the brick-paved path to the red front door, her heart hammered in her chest. Her palms oozed sweat. Adeline hadn’t even done anything wrong, but just knowing she was going to made her nervous.
She wasn’t cut out for this. What was she thinking? As she knocked on the door, holding the backpack, she considered calling the whole thing off—just sitting with Constance and talking and never deploying the listening devices.
But she couldn’t do that. Her father was counting on her.
Constance’s small home was styled like an English cottage. Inside, it was cozy, filled with art and personal pictures and large, plush furniture. Every wall was painted a warm color. The ceilings were all detailed, with painted shiplap and distressed brick.
Constance led her to a living room at the back of the home, where a natural gas fire burned in the fireplace and the accordion door was open to the patio outside. A cool breeze blew through. Adeline found it refreshing, a nice complement to the fire.
On the horizon, a thunderstorm was gathering, just starting to lay rain on the vast solar field known as the sea of glass. It moved toward the city as they began to talk.
Constance wore a teal wrap around her body and a knit hat. In her hands was a cup of chamomile tea, and on the pushcart nearby was a pot and cup for Adeline, which she had declined.
An older woman with gray hair pulled back into a bun and wearing a light blue uniform stopped at the edge of the living room.
“Do you need anything, ma’am?”
“No thank you, Gretta.”
When her footsteps had receded, Constance smiled at Adeline. “First, I want to tell you something about your father that I’ve never told anyone.”
Adeline swallowed as she nodded, suddenly nervous again.
“People who have never been sick think that the worst thing about losing your health is what it takes from you. Not being able to do what you want. To live the life you desire—to have the enjoyment taken from you. That’s not the worst of it. The worst part is seeing how the people around you change. Some leave you behind. The best lean in. And they treat you the same. They know you’ve changed, but they see the old you, and that’s what they remind you of. They treat you like the person you were before. They are your tether to your true self.”
Constance took a sip of tea. “The thing about your father is that as I got sicker, he never changed. He never treated me any differently. Not like I was sick. Or fragile. He treated me like a person—like the person he had known, a person who was simply trapped in a sick body. He was like the Rock of Gibraltar to me. He was my link to my old life.”
A strong wind gusted through the living room, whipping against the fire, making it hiss like a provoked snake in the desert.
Constance set the teacup down. “I think he learned that from your mother, from seeing what she went through. Watching someone you love lose their health has an effect on a person. It teaches you lessons no human should ever have to learn. And could never forget.”
Adeline stood on weak legs, fighting tears she knew were coming. “I need to use the restroom.”
She didn’t wait for Constance to respond. She staggered out of the cozy sitting room, down the hall, and slipped into the powder room. She placed her hands on the counter of the vanity and let the tears come.
She felt like she was in a sea in the middle of a storm, adrift in the dark, with no hope of sighting shore.
She felt lost.
Alone.
Confused.
She stared at herself in the mirror, at her bloodshot eyes and trembling lips. And she wondered if she was strong enough to do what she knew she had to.
TWENTY-ONE
On the open sea, Sam swam with the current. It was his only option. In a world where your strength is insignificant against the forces around you, swimming against the current hurts only one person: you.
He swam with the wind at his back, cresting the waves and flowing into the troughs, up and down, over and over again.
When he was too tired to swim, he rolled onto his back and caught his breath.
By the time the sun was midway in the sky—at noon—he was exhausted. He would have given a year of his life for a drink of cold water.
Around him was only hot water, filled with salt, which would only drag him closer to death with every gulp, no matter how good it made him feel.
He floated.
And he swam.
He repeated the exercise, chasing the sun, never seeing land.
On one of his breaks, staring up at the burning star that he felt charring his face, a memory gripped him, of the last time his face had been so red.
He sat in a conference room. Hiro was across from him. Constance beside him. Nora diagonal across the way. Elliott stood at the head of the table, a projector shining on half his face and onto the wall, his slide deck progressing as he spoke.
Daniele sat at the other end of the table, and when Elliott’s presentation was done, she sat back in her chair and listened as a partner at her venture capital firm peppered the scientists with questions. He wanted to hear from all the scientists—he wanted to know that they were committed to this new venture.
One by one, they declared their confidence in the proposed technology that would be called Absolom. When it came to Sam, he glanced at Elliott. In that moment, he saw himself in his old friend, the version of himself that had been busted in that dorm room. He saw a friend who needed help—help to save his son. And Sam did what Elliott had done for him: he lied.
“Yes. There’s a lot of work to do. But what we’re talking about here is possible. With the right funding.” He stared at Elliott. “And enough time.”
Because that’s what all of them needed: time and money to save their families and themselves.
Sam had felt his face turn red. He wondered if it was a giveaway—if the venture capitalists in the room knew it was a sham, if they had a sixth sense about lying scientists desperate for funding.