Elusion(92)

“Yes and no,” Dad answers. “She passed out because her delta brain waves were so strong she went into a deep dreamless state. Elusion usually only manipulates theta brain waves, which are mainly for intense meditation and light sleep.”

His words crash into one another in my mind, leaving particles and pieces scattered all over the place. As my eyes begin to open, so slowly I’m not sure it’s really happening, my brain tries to reassemble the fragments of my father’s explanation.

Delta.

Dreamless.

“Maybe if we prop her up that might help,” Josh suggests.

I feel my body weight and posture being shifted, while my eyes still seem swollen and heavy. Something soft is placed behind my head, and I can tell I’m sitting up because my lower back and legs are at a ninety-degree angle.

“Da—” That’s all that will come out of my mouth.

“I’m here, Regan. Everything is going to be okay.”

Even with my depreciated mental capacity, I can hear the worry in his voice.

But I don’t care. My dad is with me. Finally, after all this time.

“Save your energy. Don’t try to talk.” Josh’s voice is but a soft whisper.

“Rub her feet. Her lower extremities seem to be responding faster,” my dad tells him. “We need to get her up and walking so we can get you both out of here. The firewall protects us from some of the stimuli, but it’s still dangerous. And with the kind of disruption she’s already suffered, she’s going to have a tough enough time with Aftershock as it is.”

Knuckles knead my arches and the balls of my feet, sending a tingling sensation up through my ankles and straight to my upper thighs.

“We can’t go back,” I hear Josh say. The tension in his throat is unmistakable. “Patrick locked us in here.”

My father’s hand clenches my arm just a little bit tighter as I utilize all my strength to open my eyes. I’m sitting on the barren, marshy ground, my back resting against the trunk of a dead tree. Josh is at my feet and my dad is kneeling beside me, his familiar face lined with concern. He looks like he did when I saw him on the beach—just a little more tired and dirty.

“What are you talking about?” my father asks.

“Patrick was with us in the Escape before our wristbands stopped working. When he left, he was furious, and then there was an administrator lockout, and—”

“Dad,” I whisper, trying to speak once more. He touches a hand to my cheek.

“Shhh,” he says to me.

I feel my eyes starting to spasm a bit and they begin to close, even though I’m fighting to stay awake.

“Let’s get her back to the compound,” Dad says to Josh.

He leans closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. And that’s when I notice his eyes. Once a deep brown, they are now the same color as Josh’s: a light, vacant gray. Before I can react, I succumb to the fatigue, drifting beneath the surface once more.


The next time I come to, it’s like I’m waking up in the real world. My body isn’t frozen like a block of ice; my brain doesn’t feel like it’s sunk underwater. Even my leg, with its penetrating wound, looks almost healed. I can sit up and look around, but there isn’t that much to see. I’m inside a small room that seems like it’s made out of stone, kind of like a cave, only the walls here are a bright shade of ivory instead of black. I’m lying on several pieces of starchy fabric with jagged hems, so it looks like they’ve been torn from somewhere.

I glance down and notice that I’m still wearing the clothes I had on the Prairie Escape, but they’re ripped and faded, like someone has twisted and wrung all the color out of them. My skin is surprisingly clean and I feel refreshed, like I haven’t been running from monsters, breaking through walls, and rolling down hills.

When I glance back up, I notice my father, standing in the corner with his back up against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore on the beach, but like mine, they’re practically devoid of color. His smile is kind as ever, and when he takes a step toward me, I leap up and meet him halfway, pulling him into a great big hug the first moment I can.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” I say. Tears of happiness fill my eyes.

“It’s me,” he says softly, resting his chin on top of my head.

“I was so scared that I’d never see you again,” I say.

“I know, I was too,” he replies. “But we’re together now. That’s all that matters.”

I ease myself out of his arms and glance up at him through glistening eyes. “So this is real? Wherever we are?”

“Yes, it’s real.”

He motions to the makeshift bed and we both sit on the edge, just like Mom and I had done only last night. Or was it longer? I’ve lost all track of time. I’m so confused and overwhelmed, I’m clinging to his hand like a little girl, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“How’s Mom doing?” he asks, as if reading my mind. “Is she okay?”

I bow my head, wondering if I should tell him the truth, but when I glance up into his eyes, the answer is right in front of me. “Uh-huh. She’s doing fine.”

We’ve all been through enough. Why make matters worse with painful truths?