Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(16)

Fowler interrupts us. “Make the arrangements, Mr. Larson.” To me, he says, “Be quick, James. Time is a commodity we don’t have.”





I know this is Alex’s neighborhood before the helo even sets down. It’s recently built, the roads laid out in a well-planned grid that utilizes every square inch of land, houses aligned in a row, yards microscopic yet immaculately kept, nothing out of order, nothing unexpected, except perhaps the expected unexpected. It’s him. Order. Cleanliness. Meeting expectations.

We were bookends growing up. Each excelling in our own ways, always taking different paths, if for no other reason than to be the opposite of the other.

I’m delighted when the massive helo sets down in the grassy, perfectly landscaped common area. That’s going to leave a mark that will come up at the HOA meeting.

At Alex’s door, I feel a surge of nerves. I haven’t seen him since… well, before the trial. I knock gently instead of ringing the bell. Waking a ten-month-old is a bad way to start this ever-so-brief reunion.

His wife, Abby, answers the door without even peering through the glass to see who it is. Apparently it’s that kind of neighborhood, and I’m glad. She, however, is not glad to see me. The smile melts off her face. She nearly drops the smiling child, who apparently senses something is wrong and begins fidgeting.

“What are you doing here?” She catches sight of the helo. “Wait, is that your helicopter? Are you crazy? Did you escape? I’m calling the—”

“I was released, Abby. For… a… work-release program.”

She stands there, stunned.

“Oh, and yeah, that is my helo, actually. Sorry about the grass. License expired while I was locked up. I mean, who even drives anymore—”

“What do you want, James? Why are you here?”

Before I can answer, a boy of about six years old barrels down the stairs with two friends in tow. Halfway down, he calls out, “Mom, can I go over to Nathan’s?” Anticipating rejection, he adds, “Pleaaase?”

At the sight of me, he stares, as if trying to place my face. Then he breaks into a grin, and so do I. “Uncle James!”

“Hey, tiger.”

“Dad said you were in prison.”

“I was. Broke out just to come hang with you.”

His eyes go wide. “Seriously?”

“Nah.”

His mother turns on him and points. “Upstairs, Jack, right now.”

“Mom.”

“Right now. I mean it.”

She spins back to me. “Don’t come back here.”

She reaches for the door with her free hand.

I put a foot on the threshold. “I want to see him. I need to, Abby. I just want to talk to him.”

“You think he wants to talk to you? You think you can say something to make everything all right? Do you have any idea what you did to him? Do you have any clue?”

“Look, he doesn’t have to talk to me. Just… to listen. I have some things I want—some things I need to say.”

She shakes her head, anger turning to annoyance. “He’s not even here.”

“Where is he?”

“Working.”

“In town?”

“At a convention.”

“Where?”

Her eyes narrow. “I wouldn’t tell you if the world were ending.”

Against my will, I let out a laugh.

Behind me, Larson calls out, the brusque condescension gone from his tone. “Dr. Sinclair, we’re overdue for that meeting.”

“Will you tell him I came by, Abby?”

“You show up here again, I’ll call the cops.”

The glass rattles when she slams the door.

Larson falls in beside me as we walk away.

“Still want them moved to an LHZ?”

“Yeah. They’re my family, Larson.”





Chapter 13





Emma





Even though I’m out of contact with the ground, I write a message notifying them that I’ve identified a potential survivor, the location, and my intention to launch a rescue. The message will send the moment the capsule comes back into contact with a ground station. At that point, I may have my hands full.

Docking the capsule to the debris is tricky. The docking connector on the piece of the ISS is still intact. That’s the good news. The bad news is that, frankly, I’m a geneticist, not a pilot, so my flying skills aren’t the greatest in ISS history. But I’ve trained for this, and I do my best, which equates to docking after three attempts.

During the sloppiest docking in ISS history, I peer through the airlock window. What I don’t see scares me: my crewmate. Surely the person in the suit—if there is a person in the suit—felt the capsule connect with the module and reverse-thrust to counteract the impact. But no one came to the connector to watch, or wave, or cheer me on.

I push that thought out of my mind. Maybe they’re pinned down. Or unconscious. There are a hundred reasons why they didn’t come to the berthing connector. I tell myself that as I open the airlock and float into the ISS module.

The Russian Orlan space suit is placid as I approach, the visor a mirror reflecting the image of me floating closer, reaching out. My hope shatters when my hand touches the suit’s arm. My fingers sink right to the center. The suit has no pressure. The arm inside is hard and slender. In my gloved hand it feels like a toothpick.