Sign Here(100)

Cal also wanted to think of her story as a given. She wanted to think of her young self as an inevitable start to who she became, so she didn’t have to focus on all of the people who let her down. So she didn’t have to acknowledge that all of the pain she had experienced both above and below the ground was the fault of those meant to care for her. The consequences of a child being too little loved. Once she knew, without a doubt, that all of her father’s teachings were a lie, the only way she could reckon with all that time in the Downstairs, all that time on the belt refusing water, was this concept. That she was bad, and she would always be bad. That her father’s blood made her not only his, but him.

But as I watched her smile at me, thrilled to see a sign of home after so many strangers, I recognized something different, from this side of time. I could tell that even with a life of nothing but death and the knife wedged in her boot, at this point, at least, she wasn’t afraid of being good. She believed, in fact, that she already was, and would always be.

“Are you hungry? Hop in and we’ll grab a bite.”

She pulled open the door before I finished talking and she slid in beside me, the cloud of dust following her as if tucking her in. I glanced over my shoulder at the road, which was open and flat and endless, and pulled off the shoulder.

With one finger, she flicked a small plush dog that hung from my rearview mirror.

“Interesting choice of decor,” she said, and I was glad to hear sass was a core trait.

“It’s my daughter’s,” I said. “She’s just about your age, actually.”

I rolled down my window, even though the Texas heat was hard enough to smack, like something physical, just to feel the movement of the air. I noticed when I rolled down my window that she rolled hers down too. Even though she had yet to know just how badly she could miss the air.

But now she wouldn’t have to.



* * *



—

EVER SINCE I MADE the deal with Silas and was sent crashing back to Earth, I have been a sucker for air. I thought it couldn’t get any better than the air on those trips with my tablet and malintent, especially when compared to the air below. But breathing it in with actual human lungs is a whole new kind of delicious. I can feel every molecule rushing in, shooting from my chest out to the ends of my fingers and toes, feeding me.

To breathe is miraculous. You should think about that more.

Every time I used to imagine the moment I returned, I told myself I wouldn’t take it for granted. I would spend the rest of my days taking each breath like that first one back. I would be human to the fullest. Touch and smell and see everything; spend at least ten minutes a day with my hand on my heart, just to feel it beat. But there is more to the heart than that, isn’t there? And while I knew love—or the pit love leaves behind—was a rewarding weapon, I had forgotten why.

I forgot just how good it felt.

When that came crashing back into me—and crash it did, emotional defibrillation—it was like seeing for the first time with all the colors.

I was the one who had been stupid. You had it right the whole time.

So when he came for me, I was ready.



* * *



—

“HOW CAN I HELP you today?”

I looked up and laughed. It startled him, but I didn’t mind. The tables had been turned. Literally, I thought as I slid my palm along the edge of my dining room table. It was the same one as in the New Hampshire house.

Humans and your sentimental attachment to things.

I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. Between his time and mine, he could’ve been transferred, bumped back down, or just in a different hallway. I recognized his pressed shirt—too much starch—and striped tie. I recognized the plastic of his smile. The way he tried to breathe as deeply as he could without being obvious.

I wanted to tell him to take it all in, to enjoy it. I could wait.

But I couldn’t.

What Cal had said was true. My daughter was dying in the room next door. I could feel it inside me, like my heart was in her weakening fist. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? This human love. It wasn’t that she held my heart, something taken from me. It’s that my heart was nothing if not for the container of her hand.

My final memory of Mickey, wet and empty, came flooding back to me, and I had to grip the table. She didn’t even exist yet, and the loss of her took up more of me than I did.

“You said you wanted to make a deal,” he said, tapping his pen. I wanted to tell him he’d get a tablet soon, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this.

“Yes,” I said. “I do. Me for my daughter.”

“We can do that,” he said, pulling out a manila folder.

“But I need it in writing: I get to live my full life, as long as my body will have it. No bus collisions, no faulty brakes. I have to take care of some business in North Carolina, and I’ve got a girl who needs a ride.”

He faltered briefly, eyeing me. But then he nodded. “Of course.”

“And I have one more request. It’s very important.”

“What’s that?”

I knew my purpose. Or, rather, I should say I remembered my purpose. Not just the words of it, but their meaning. And I wasn’t going to mess it up again. Maybe I didn’t turn out to be a good person in Hell. That shouldn’t be surprising. But here, I was. Good enough, at least.