Rob nodded, turned toward the row of women behind the long receiving desk. They were always women. Maybe Cryomed figured that made the setup seem less barbaric. He paid his fee, turned, waved to Veronika, who was sitting at a reclining kiosk, working her system, and was ushered through.
As Winter’s crèche slid out of the wall, he played “Free Spirit,” an old soft postal tune by Running On, and went ahead and sang the lyrics that went with it.
The crèche’s cover whisked off silently; a moment later, Winter opened her eyes. They were blank as a doll’s button eyes, or a shark’s. Slowly, awareness bled into them; they focused on Rob, then, as always, there was that moment of recognition.
He set his lute down, expecting Winter to say something kind about his singing voice, because that would be a Winter thing to do, but she just looked at him.
“We have fourteen minutes this time. Rob and Veronika really came through,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” Winter asked.
Startled, Rob tried to laugh it off. “You mean, besides my inability to carry a tune?”
Winter studied his face. “You look like you did the first time I saw you. Your eyes are red and puffy. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
He shrugged. “I’m sick. A cold. I probably should spring for rhino eradicator—”
“We’re way past bullshitting each other, Rob. Aren’t we? I hope we are.” Her unblinking, unwavering gaze was like a spotlight.
Rob put a hand over his mouth. He should have known. All Winter ever saw was his face, so she looked closely, saw what others missed. “It’s not something you want to know. Please, trust me on this.”
“Someone died. Someone I know.” Her lips moved soundlessly. “Is it Nathan? Idris? Tell me who died.”
“No one died.”
She studied his face, his hands, as if the truth was hidden somewhere in view. “Then what?”
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He’d planned out the entire fourteen minutes, and this definitely was not part of the plan. “Let’s talk about good things—”
“Tell me.”
Rob closed his eyes. He couldn’t simply refuse, and he couldn’t think of a feasible lie. And if she was this close to the truth, maybe she had the right to know.
He took a deep breath. “They’re taking you out of the program.”
Winter frowned. “What do you mean, out of the program? Where else would I go?”
He couldn’t bring himself to answer. Tears leaked down his cheeks; he clenched his chest, stifling the sob pushing to come out.
Winter’s eyes went wide. “Wait. What does that mean? What does it mean when they take you out of the program?” She knew. He could see it in her eyes.
Another visitor—a tall, spidery man with tiny ears—looked up at Rob from beside a nearby crèche. The man was probably curious why Winter sounded so alarmed. Rob stared back at him until he went back to looking down at his date.
“I’ve tried everything,” he said in a harsh whisper.
Winter’s lip was quivering, her eyes wild with fear. “When?”
“Days.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
Her white tongue poked out of her mouth and tried to lick her lips, but Rob could hear the dry futility of it. “This is it, then. How much time do I have left?”
Rob checked the timer. “Nine minutes.”
“Nine minutes.”
Five seconds of that nine minutes vanished as Winter digested the news.
“I want to use them well, but I don’t know how. What should I do?” She looked at him pleadingly. “What would you do?”
Another three seconds melted away. “I’d spend my last nine minutes thinking about you. Thinking about things you said, remembering you as the wisest, funniest, most grounded person I’ve ever known. And trying to forgive myself.”
“Head shake. No guilt. We’re good, you and me. I admit it, I hated your guts the first few times you visited. I resented the hell out of you. But we’re good now. You kept your promise. Now make another: no guilt. Promise you’ll get on with your life now.”
Rob hesitated. “I promise I’ll try.” It occurred to Rob that he’d somehow turned it around so they were spending her precious moments talking about him. That was not acceptable. “I promise. I promise.”
“But all that other stuff, about remembering me as wise and funny and grounded?”
Rob nodded.
“It’s mostly wrong, but remember me that way anyway.” She tried to smile, and Rob tried to laugh, but it was forced.
Six minutes. The timer seemed to be racing toward zero. Rob felt like slamming his fist through it.
“Tell Idris I love her, that I thought about her. I hope her little girl is a wonder.”
“She’s going to name her Winter.” It just came out. When had he learned to lie so easily?
“That’s nice.” She whispered unintelligibly, her gaze far away. “Tell Nathan I apologize for demolishing the Baneth One. I hope he gets there one day, if that’s what he really wants.”
“You apologize for demolishing the Baneth One,” Rob repeated, having no idea what she meant, since the Baneth One Building was doing fine. “I’ll tell him.”
“It’s perfectly natural, what’s happening to me. It’s how things are supposed to be. The wheel turns. The wheel turns.”
“Sooner or later, we’re all going to be right where you are now,” Rob said. “In the scheme of things, I’m just an eyeblink behind you.”
Winter went back to whispering, and Rob couldn’t help stealing a glance at the timer. Five minutes, twenty-three seconds.
Twenty-two.
Twenty-one.
“This is for the best,” Winter said. She sounded breathless, but that didn’t make sense, because her heart wasn’t pounding. “I won’t have to be afraid anymore. This is how it’s supposed to be—an end, a clear line. No more halfway, no more being scared.” She looked at Rob, as if remembering he was there. “You’ve been a good friend. Thank you for being a good friend.” Her forehead creased, her mouth stretched, as if she was starting to cry, but no tears came.
“I’ll never forget you,” Rob said, hating how trite that sounded. “I—I love you.”
She smiled, whispered, “You love me. That’s—” She searched for words. “That’s the last thing I expected you to say. An Easter egg in my basket.”
For some reason Rob wanted to hear her say that she loved him, too. But she had—he glanced at the wall—two minutes, twelve seconds left in her life, and he wasn’t going to waste any of it asking.
“I’m so scared,” Winter said. “I wish you could hold my hand. I wish I could feel my hands.”
Rob reached out and lifted a corner of the silver mesh covering Winter from the neck down, exposing a white breast, a patchwork of rough black sutures that crisscrossed her skin, trailing from just below her breast, out of sight.
“Mr. Mashita, please let go of the sheath and step away from Miss West,” the voice of Cryomed said from somewhere above them.
“Please fuck off,” Rob said.
Winter’s hips were canted at an impossible angle, one hip bone almost centered where her belly button should be. He turned his head, kept his gaze on Winter’s face, slid his hand along her arm until he found her hand, slid his fingers between hers and lifted it. It was freezing cold, small and perfect.
Winter was looking at her hand. “That’s better. You’re a good guy. I wish—”
The final second slipped off the timer, and she was gone. Rob set her hand on top of the mesh and stood, just as a Cryomed representative—a man, for this job—was jogging toward him.
“I apologize. I forgot,” Rob said as the man approached. He was tall, obviously muscular under his white suit, but not quite thuggish.