• • •
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Tell me your sins, child.”
“I’ve broken things. I’ve stolen things. Electronics. A car—maybe two. I may have become violent with a girl once. I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure? How could you not be sure?”
“None of my memories are complete.”
“Son, you can confess only to the things you remember.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Father. I have no complete memories. Just bits and pieces.”
“Well, I’ll accept your confession, but it sounds like you need something more than the sacrament of the confessional.”
“It’s because the memories are from other people.”
“ . . .”
“Did you hear me?”
“So you’ve received bits of the unwound?”
“Yes, but—”
“Son, you can’t be held responsible for the acts of a mind that isn’t yours, any more than you can be responsible for the acts of a grafted hand.”
“I have a couple of those, too.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Camus Comprix. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“ . . .”
“I said my name is—”
“—yes, yes, I heard you, I heard you. I’m just surprised you’re here.”
“Because I’m soulless?”
“Because I very rarely hear confessions from public figures.”
“Is that what I am? A public figure?”
“Why are you here, son?”
“Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I might not . . . be . . . .”
“Your presence here proves you exist.”
“But as what? I need you to tell me that I’m not a spoon! That I’m not a teapot!”
“You make no sense. Please, there are people waiting.”
“No! This is important! I need you to tell me . . . . I need to know . . . if I qualify as a human being.”
“You must know that the church has not taken an official position on unwinding.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Yes, yes, I know it’s not. I know. I know.”
“In your opinion as a man of the cloth . . .”
“You ask too much of me. I am here to give absolution, nothing more.”
“But you have an opinion, don’t you?”
“ . . .”
“When you first heard of me?”
“ . . .”
“What was that opinion, Father?”
“It is neither my place to say, nor your place to ask!”
“But I do ask!”
“It is not to your benefit to hear!”
“Then you’re being tested, Father. This is your test: Will you tell the truth, or will you lie to me in your own confessional?”
“My opinion . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“My opinion . . . was that your arrival in this world marked the end of all things we hold dear. But that opinion was borne of fear and ignorance. I admit that! And today I see the awful reflection of my own petty judgments. Do you understand?”
“ . . .”
“I confess that I am humbled by your question. How can I speak to whether or not you carry a divine spark?”
“A simple yes or no will do.”
“No one on earth can answer that question, Mr. Comprix—and you should run from anyone who claims they can.”
• • •
Cam wanders the streets aimlessly, not knowing or caring where he is. He’s sure that Roberta has put out a search party already.
And what happens when they find him? They’ll take him home. Roberta will soundly chastise him. Then she’ll forgive him. And then tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, he’ll try on the crisp uniform hanging on the back of his door, he’ll like how it looks, and he’ll allow himself to be transferred to his new owners.
He knows it’s inevitable. And he also knows that the day that happens is the day any spark he has within him will die forever.
A bus approaches down the street, its headlights bobbing as it hits a pothole. Cam could take that bus home. He could take it far away. But neither of those choices is the idea pinioning his mind at that moment.
And so he prays in nine languages, to a dozen deities—to Jesus, to Yahweh, to Allah, to Vishnu, to the “I” of the universe, and even to a great godless void.
Please, he begs. Please give me a single reason why I shouldn’t hurl myself beneath the wheels of that bus.
When the answer comes, it comes in English—and not from the heavens, but from the bar behind him.
“ . . . have confirmed that Connor Lassiter, also known as the Akron AWOL, is still alive. It is believed he may be traveling with Lev Calder and Risa Ward . . . .”
The bus rolls past, splattering his jeans with mud.
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, Cam returns home with a new sense of calm, as if nothing has happened. Roberta scolds him. Roberta forgives him. Always the same.
“You must stop these reckless surrenders to your momentary moods,” she chides.
“Yes, I know.” Then he tells her that he’s accepting General Bodeker’s “proposal.”
Roberta, of course, is both relieved and overjoyed. “This is a great step for you, Cam. A step you need to take. I’m so very proud of you.”
He wonders what the general’s response would have been had Cam not accepted. Certainly they would come for him anyway. Forced him into submission. After all, if he’s their property, it’s in their right to do anything they want to him.
Cam goes to his room and heads straight for his guitar. This is not an idle kind of playing tonight; he plays with a purpose only he knows. The music brings with it the impressions of memories, like an afterimage of a bright landscape. Certain fingerings, certain chord progressions have more of an effect, so he works them, changes them up. He begins to dig.
His chords sound atonal and random—but they’re not. For Cam it’s like spinning the dial of a safe. You can crack any combination if you’re skilled enough and you know what to listen for.
Then finally, after more than an hour of playing, it all comes together. Four chords, unusual in their combination, but powerfully evocative, rise to the surface. He plays the chords over and over, trying different fingering, finessing the notes and the harmonies, letting the music resonate through him.
“I haven’t heard that one,” Roberta says, poking her head in his room. “Is it new?”
“Yes,” Cam lies. “Brand-new.”
But in reality it’s very old. Much older than him. He had to dig deep to coax it forth, but once he found it, it’s as if it was always there on the tips of his fingers, on the edge of his mind waiting to be played. The song fills him with immense joy and immense sorrow. It sings of soaring hopes and dreams crushed. And the more he plays it, the more memory fragments are drawn forth.
When he heard that news report coming from the bar—when he stepped in and saw the faces of the Akron AWOL, his beloved Risa, and the tithe-turned-clapper on the TV screen, he was stunned. First by the revelation that Connor Lassiter was alive—but on top of that, a sense of mental connection that made his seams crawl.
It was the tithe. That innocent face. Cam knew that face, and not just from the many articles and news reports. This was more.
He was injured.
He needed healing.
I played guitar for him.
A healing song.
For the Mahpee.
Cam had no idea what that meant, only that it was a spark of connection—a synapse within his complex mosaic of neurons. He knows Lev Calder—or at least a member of his internal community does—and that knowledge is somehow tied to music.
So now Cam plays.