Burn (Pure #3)(102)

“Well, I really needed your help,” Lyda says.

“I’m smoothing it all out.”

“Do you have to take it with you to the shop? I thought maybe it would need to be taken out.” She means that she hopes he will help them get out—Pressia and Lyda together. But will he understand?

“I see your point,” Boyd says. “Yes. And I’ve thought of that.”

“You have?”

“I have.”

Boyd screws a back panel onto the orb, tightens it up. He hands it to Lyda. “It’s all better, though! See?”

She admires it. “Aren’t you a lifesaver?” Lyda says, meaning, Save us.

“It was nice to see Chandry here this morning,” Boyd says, idly packing his tools.

“Do you know her?”

“We’re neighbors, actually. Mr. and Mrs. Culp are great people.”

Lyda’s alarmed. Is Boyd trying to tell her something?

“The kind of neighbors who help others. You know?”

“Really…” Lyda says.

“Really,” Boyd says. “You can always trust a Culp.” Is he telling her to trust Chandry? Lyda feels like crying. Is this a joke? Trust Culp? Chandry? If she trusts Chandry, and Boyd is wrong, she’ll wind up in the rehabilitation center. But if Boyd is truly part of Cygnus and so are the Culps, then this may be their only chance.

Boyd reaches out to shake her hand. He’s leaving. She hugs Boyd and whispers, “Return him to the outside. He’s a messenger. Let him go.” She takes Freedle from her pocket and slips it into the pocket of Boyd’s gray jumpsuit.

When she releases him, he looks confused, but she has to have faith that Boyd will find Freedle and do as she told him and that Freedle will have sense and strength enough to deliver the message. Lyda smiles at Boyd, pats his shoulder.

“Be careful with the orb,” he says, but he glances at her belly. He means, Take care of the baby. Is he saying that he won’t see her again—for a long time?

“I will, Boyd. Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome. I hope it all works.” He smiles at her—weary but with a hint of hope.

She smiles and then clips back down the hall.

When she walks into the nursery, Pressia is nowhere to be seen. The large plastic bin on wheels sits in the middle of the room. Chandry looks at her searchingly then glances at the cameras mounted in the high corners. The cloths hiding the cameras are gone, but one seems like it’s been twisted so that it points mostly into a corner, leaving part of the room out of view.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Chandry says. “You should have been made to do all of this yourself!” Her tone is still harsh. Is she putting on a show? She picks up a spear. “Here,” she says, nodding to the bin.

Lyda takes the spear and walks it to the bin. She looks into it, and there, amid all of the mess of her room—the remains of books and spears, pieces of Lyda’s dress, the shell of a few books, even the bowl of ashes, now overturned, and all that’s left of the crib—is Pressia. She looks up and nods. Trust Culp. This is what she seems to be saying. Lyda drops the spear into the bin.

Chandry has a bundle of spears in one fist. She backs up close to the wall that the camera isn’t filming. “Bring that bin closer,” Chandry says. “Stop lazing around!”

Lyda complies. She pushes the bin to the spot Chandry is now pointing at. Once there, Chandry gives a nod. She means, You’re out of view now. Get in.

The bin is dark and cluttered with the debris of her room. As Lyda climbs in, Chandry keeps talking. “I don’t know what possessed you to make such a disgusting mess! A child is a holy, holy gift.”

Soon, Lyda and Pressia are sitting on the floor of the bin. It’s dusty with ash, like home.

Chandry is dropping in the last few spears, saying, “You were going to bring this child into this awful place? What were you thinking? Your mother was right about you.”

This stings. What did Lyda’s mother say about her?

“You need help! Real professional help! You’ll probably never be right in the head. It’s a permanent condition!”

Lyda closes her eyes. She knows why Chandry is saying this; it’s a warning. She means that Lyda has to get out now. Her mother will be coming back for her with a team of professionals. She’ll be taken into the rehab center and never allowed to leave. A permanent condition. Lyda thinks back to what she read in her psychological evaluation: lifelong institutionalization. She opens her eyes. Pressia reaches out and grabs Lyda’s hand. She must know this is hard for Lyda. It’s like losing a mother, in a way. Maybe it’s worse. A rejection. Pressia squeezes Lyda’s hand, and Lyda squeezes back.

Chandry closes the lid, and the bin goes dark.

The bin starts rolling. Lyda can feel the jostling wheels. She listens to their light squeaking.

Chandry has taken them out of the room. She stops in the hallway for a moment. Has she left them?

No—she’s back, humming a little tune, pushing the massive garbage bin.

She says to the guard, “The poor girl has had a shock. We don’t want her to lose the pregnancy. Let them both sleep the rest of the day. They’ve eaten. They’re tucked in. Do not disturb them. Do you hear me?”