Replica (Replica #1)(27)

But once again, they had no choice. And at the very least, being in the car felt better, sturdier, than being in the kayak, although as soon as Jake began bumping down the road, Lyra had to close her eyes to keep from being sick. But this only made things worse. The car was louder, too, than she’d thought it would be. The windows rattled and the engine sounded like a wild animal and the radio was so loud Lyra thought her head would explode. They were going so fast that the outside world looked blurry, and she had to close her eyes again.

To calm herself she recited the alphabet in her head, then counted up from one to one hundred. She listed all the constellations she knew, but that was painful: she imagined Cassiopeia’s face, and Ursa Major’s obsession with hoarding things from the mess hall—old spoons and paper cups, bags of oyster crackers and packages of mustard—and wondered whether she would ever see any of the other replicas again.

“Hey. Are you all right? It’s okay—we’re stopped now.”

Lyra opened her eyes and saw that Gemma was right: they had stopped. They were in what looked like an enormous loading dock, but filled with dozens and dozens of parked cars instead of boats—a parking lot, another idea she’d absorbed from the nurses without ever having seen it. Could all the cars belong to different people? Looming in the distance was a building three times the size of even the Box. W-A-L-M-A-R-T. Lyra flexed her fingers, which ached. She had been holding tight to her seat without realizing it.

“You guys can stay here, okay?” Gemma said. “Just sit tight. We’re going to buy food and stuff. And clothes,” she added. “Do you know your shoe size?”

Lyra shook her head. At Haven they were provided with sandals or slippers. Sometimes they were too big, other times too small, but Lyra so often went barefoot she hadn’t thought it mattered.

“Okay.” Gemma exhaled. “What did you say your names were again?”

“I’m Lyra,” Lyra said. “And this is seventy-two.” She was distracted. Outside the car, Jake was speaking on a cell phone. Lyra felt a twinge of nervousness. Who was he calling? Every so often, he glanced back into the car as if to make sure that Lyra and 72 were still there. What if 72 was right, and Jake and Gemma couldn’t be trusted?

“Seventy-two?” Gemma repeated. “That isn’t a name.”

“It’s my number,” 72 said shortly.

“I’m twenty-four,” Lyra said, by way of explanation. “But one of the doctors named me.” 72 looked faintly annoyed, but Lyra knew he was probably just jealous, because he didn’t yet have a name.

“Wow,” Jake said. “And I thought being named after my father was bad. Sorry,” he added quickly. “Dumb joke. Just . . . stay here, okay? We’ll be back in ten minutes.”

For a while, 72 and Lyra sat in silence. Lyra figured out how to roll down the window but found no relief from the heat outside. It was what Nurse Don’t-Even-Think-About-It had called molasses-hot. She watched Jake and Gemma as they narrowed into brushstrokes and then disappeared into W-A-L-M-A-R-T. Gemma’s reference to a grandmother bothered her—but it excited her, too, because of what it meant.

Finally she said, “I don’t think the girl knows she’s a replica.”

72 had been staring out the window—fists lodged in his armpits, hunched over as though he were cold, which was impossible. He turned to her. “What?”

“The girl’s a replica. But I don’t think she knows it.” The idea was taking shape now, and with it the simple suggestion of possibility, of a life that might exist on the other side of Haven. At the same time, she was afraid to voice the possibility out loud, aware that it would sound silly and afraid of what 72 would say. “Which means . . . well, maybe she comes from a place where being a replica doesn’t make a difference. Where they have families and drive cars and things like that.”

Lyra could see herself reflected in 72’s eyes. They were the color of the maple syrup served in the Stew Pot on special occasions, like Christmas and the anniversary of the first God’s death. “Is that what you want?” he said at last. “You want a family?”

“I don’t know.” Lyra turned away from him, embarrassed by the intensity of his stare, which felt like being back in the Box, like being evaluated, having her eyes and knees tested for reflexes. Her idea of mother looked much like the nurses and the Haven staff. Mother was someone to feed and clothe you and make sure you took your medicines. But now, unbidden, an image of Dr. O’Donnell came to her. She imagined herself tucked up in a big white bed while Dr. O’Donnell read out loud. She remembered the way that Dr. O’Donnell’s hands had smelled, and the feel of fingertips skimming the crown of her head. Good night, Lyra. And there were her dreams, too, impressions of a birther who held and rocked her, and a cup with lions around its rim. When she was younger she had searched the mess hall for such a cup before being forced to admit that all the glasses at Haven were plain, made of clear plastic. She knew her dreams must be just that—dreams, a kind of wishful thinking.

But she was too ashamed to confess what she was thinking: that she could find Dr. O’Donnell. That Dr. O’Donnell could be her mother. “What do you want?” Lyra asked instead, turning to 72. “You ran away, even if you didn’t get far.”

“I couldn’t,” 72 said. “I couldn’t figure out a way past the guards.”