The Collective(23)

2948: In my town too.



“Huh?” says Luke.

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You were going to call me when you got home. Remember?”

I have no recollection of ever having said this. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No worries. I’m just glad you’re . . . you know. Alive.”

5590 says that the Law shields people like the mayor’s son from justice, and 2948 replies that if she were justice, she’d rip him limb from limb. As quietly as I can, I type, We ARE justice.

“You are alive,” Luke says. “Right?”

“I’ve . . . I’ve been caught up in a work project.”

“Oh. Sure.” He sounds odd and detached, as though he doesn’t believe me. It makes me feel the way I did in high school, when I was stoned with friends and forced, for whatever reason, to talk to my mom on the phone. I have an urge to hang up on Luke, to tell him I’m not feeling well or that I have an appointment scheduled or that there’s a call on the other line. It’s so strange, this divide between us. It’s never been there before.

Just give me a few days, Luke. A few days with my new friends, and then I’ll be back to my old self. I promise.

But what’s this?


4566: We are MORE than justice. As long as each of us does her part, we are A DEATH MACHINE.

0001: A reminder that this is a public forum.

4566: I wasn’t going to be specific. I swear. Sorry. I’ve had a few glasses of wine.

0001: Log off, please. Get some rest. You can come back when you’re sober.



Whoa . . . I open up a private message window and try to type in 4566, but the numbers don’t register on the screen. I try a few more numbers from the chat, but they don’t either. The only number I can private message is 0001.

Luke says, “Are you typing?”

Please go away. “I’m just . . . Yes. It’s . . . it’s that work project I was telling you about.”

“I should let you go. We can talk later.”

“I’m sorry, Luke.” And I am. I truly am, but . . . When I asked 0001 if this was a game, she never answered me one way or the other. “I’ll be done with this soon.”

“No worries. Wait, though. I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever find out what Niobe was about?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them on the screen.


0001: 0417, check your private messages.



Luke says, “Niobe. Greek mythology, remember? The woman gave you that card?”

My heart is pounding, my hand hovering over the touch pad. I need to get him off the phone, but Luke knows me so well. I’ve come to believe that when my daughter’s heart was implanted in his chest, her intuition somehow came with it. And so I can’t lie to him. He’ll know it.

“It’s just a stupid Facebook page. One of those groups for grieving parents, where they try and help you find ‘closure.’”

Luke sighs.

“Exactly.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s really not a big deal.”

“I was hoping you could find some . . . I don’t know. Some company.”

My gaze is pinned to the screen, the private messages box. I force out a chuckle. “Because misery loves it?”

“No, Cam,” he says quietly. “Because you deserve to feel better.”

“Luke.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m doing okay. I’d tell you if I weren’t.”

“Good,” he says. In the background, I can hear Nora calling his name. And then: “Is that Camille? Did you tell her?”

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing. I’ll tell you next time we talk.”

“Okay.” Normally, I’d press him a lot more, but I don’t even sound curious, which is not like me at all.

“Cam?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too.”

I let out a long sigh. “Let’s talk soon.”

After I end the call, I click on my private messages again and open it—a one-line message that sticks in my head long after it vanishes, filling me with a strange new sensation, part thrill, part dread, as though I’m at the start of a roller coaster that might possibly collapse.


0001: Look in your mailbox.



I hurry downstairs and out my front door without a coat on, searching up and down my road for a sign of a car, a puff of dust. I don’t think I heard one drive by, and I usually do from my office, which faces the road. But sure enough, when I open the mailbox, there’s something in there. Who came to my house? How did they know to come here? I slip the package out very slowly. Hold it between the tips of my thumb and index finger, as though it’s covered in poison.

It’s an unmarked manila envelope. Something short and bulky is inside. “What is going on?” I say it as though someone is watching and can answer, and part of me believes that someone is, someone can.

I have an urge to throw the package into the bushes and run back into my house. But the urge to open it is much, much stronger.