Strangely, even though it would be evidence of something I didn’t believe in, I find myself hoping that the test results will match, as if that would be some sort of sign that Charlene and I were meant to be together.
But you don’t believe in signs.
You don’t believe—
I stare at the two sets of data.
And the results are bewildering.
In almost every case, the fluctuations of her heart rate correspond directly to the times when I was focusing my thoughts and emotions on her.
I literally scratch my head. “Honestly, I have no idea how to explain this, Charlene. You put the RF jammer beneath the cushion on the chair like we talked about last night?”
“Yes.”
Everyone’s heart rate, respiration rate, blood pressure, and other physiological processes are constantly changing as we move, as we respond to our surroundings and other people, as we feel apprehension or guilt or fear or pleasure or excitement. Still, there’s a baseline that our bodies will return to when we’re in a relaxed state, as Charlene was in while she was in the chamber.
However, what I’m looking at here are not random fluctuations; rather, they match, with startling uniformity, the instances when I was focusing my thoughts on Charlene.
But when, of course, she had no idea I was doing so.
These are our results, not the center’s. This was with our equipment, not theirs. There was no way they could be faking this. And I could think of no explanation as to why her physiological signs should have fluctuated as they did, when they did.
I try to keep an open mind, but it’s hard to know what to think.
This morning I started out trying to debunk this research, not confirm it, so despite my reservations, I have to rule out the variable of confirmation bias, however unlikely that would be.
Keep an open mind.
Charlene stands beside me, studies the printouts I’m holding. “So, Jevin, it looks like you and I are entangled.”
“So it would seem.”
“I wonder how long this has been going on.”
“Our entanglement?”
“Yes.”
“I, um… I couldn’t say.”
I feel like a junior high — age boy standing next to the girl who’s just given him a note with the question, “Wanna be more than friends?” And two boxes, “Yes” and “No.” And then the words, “Check one.” And I know which one I would check, I know how entangled my heart is, but I’m afraid to tell her. Something holds me back. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t been with a woman since my wife died. And how to act now, in this moment with Charlene — the right thing to say eludes me.
We look into each other’s eyes and she doesn’t look away, and I almost get drawn beyond myself, almost let the shock of seeing the data we were just reviewing drift away. Almost, but not quite. Because the impact is still there — the results have snagged my thoughts and I just can’t shake them, can’t ignore the implications.
I think she can tell I’m distracted because a flicker of disappointment crosses her face and she looks away, toward the window. Toward the fog. “It’s almost two. I know Xavier will be anxious to hear about the test. Let’s see if we can find a way to reach him or Fionna, tell them what we found. We might be able to reach them if we drove a little ways down the road.”
Go on, Jevin, say something.
Wanna be more than friends? Yes or no?
Yes.
Now she looks at me. “What do you think?”
I start to reply, to answer her previous question about how long this entanglement has been going on, but all that comes out is, “Sure. We can head straight to Tanbyrn’s office from the parking lot. Save some time. That should be fine.”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Tell her how you feel. Tell her!
My hands feel awkward and unsure of themselves as I fold the printouts, put them in my pocket.
Yes or no?
I just can’t find the right words to say.
Then Charlene steps out of the cabin and I follow her, thinking back through the conversation, replaying it, rehashing what I should have said but didn’t.
I wonder how long this has been going on.
I have evidence that there really is something to Dr. Tanbyrn’s tests. That there really is something tangible to my feelings for Charlene.
What measurements could you ever come up with to test the depths of true love?
Maybe I had them on that sheet of paper in my pocket.
For a few moments Cyrus admired the beautiful, sleek jewel wasps. Perfectly evolved predators. Beautiful Ampulex compressa specimens.
A parasitoid is an animal or organism that takes control of another organism, killing it so that it can implant its offspring inside the host.
But in this case, Cyrus’s female jewel wasp wasn’t actually going to kill the cockroach herself — her offspring would do that when it hatched and then consumed the cockroach from the inside out while it was still alive.
He leaned over the aquarium that contained the inch-and-a-half-long, squirming Periplaneta americana. There were twenty roaches in there, but he would just be needing one today.
He eased the cover to one side.
Fast little creatures. Able to move up to four feet per second, which was comparable to a human running over two hundred miles per hour. It took him a few tries, but in the confines of the aquarium, it wasn’t too difficult for him to corner one. He picked it up, pinching it firmly to keep it from twisting free from his grasp.
With his other hand he closed the aquarium, carefully edged the cover to the wasps’ aquarium slightly to the side and dropped the cockroach in, then quickly closed the opening again before any of the fifteen wasps could escape.
The roach immediately skittered across the dirt floor, instinctively looking for a place to escape its wide-open, exposed position, especially with so many predators buzzing around it.
The roach hit the aquarium’s glass wall, began scurrying along the edge of it, desperate to find cover in the small leaves scattered across the floor. Millions of years of evolution willing it to run, to hide, to survive.
The cockroach was five times the size of a wasp, but that made no difference to the wasps.
One of them took the lead and flew in a tight, circling pattern, undoubtably working out the best way to approach the future host for her child.
Glenn pinned the visitor tag to his shirt, left the registration lobby, and returned to his car to retrieve the pack of supplies for the job at hand.
With the wound in his leg, he couldn’t help but limp, and that bothered him, made him irritable, but he would spend time recovering when all this was over. After he’d been paid.
In the distance, near the registration building, he noticed two people — a man and a woman — round the corner and head toward the parking lot.
We’re not yet to the car, but I pause, try my cell.
Nothing.
“Let’s drive down the road toward the valley,” Charlene suggests. “The gorge might be wide-open enough for you to get a bar or two.”
As we walk toward the car, she hands me her cell. “You know how much I like talking on these things. I’ll drive; you try to reach Fionna. We have different carriers. Who knows? It’s worth a shot.”
“You’re the only woman I know who can’t stand talking on the phone.”