The Ones We're Meant to Find(2)

Shaking out my arms, I start the descent. U-me rolls beside me, occasionally beeping out a “Strongly disagree” in response to my foothold choices. But I’ve memorized most of the soft spots in the ridge, and I order her back up top when I’m halfway down.

The untied rope drops just as my feet hit the ground. I stuff it into my pack and pat U-me’s head when she rejoins me. “Good work, love.”

Aside from us, the mist is the only moving thing in the meadow this morning. I try my best to ignore the shrines and attribute my goose bumps to the sweat cooling on my back. Hunger stabs my stomach, but I don’t stop for a taro biscuit. Not here. Doesn’t feel right to eat here.

The meadow ends with a sparse forest of pines. Several are fused along the trunk like conjoined twins. Infiltrating the pines are eight-point-leaf trees. They dominate the forest deeper in. Branches clasp above our heads, leaves strewing the path with rotting mulch. A beetle darts in front of us—and ends up under U-me’s wheels.

Crunch.

I flinch. The taking of a life—however small—seems bigger when there’s so little of it on this island already. “Heartless.”

“Heartless: without feeling, adjective; cruel, adjective.”

“Or literally without a heart.”

“Neutral.”

“Okay, what do you even mean by that? Neutral to the definition? Or to the idea of not having a heart?”

U-me’s fans whir.

I duck under a low-hanging branch. “Right. Sorry, love. Forgot you don’t do direct questions.” Along with a bajillion other things.

When I first found U-me in the cupboard under M.M.’s sink, in need of some sun juice, I’d danced around the house. A bot could help me build the boat. Or map out the waters in my vicinity. Or simply provide me critical intel, like where I’m from and how to find my sister.

Except U-me isn’t your average bot. She’s a mash-up of a dictionary and a questionnaire rating scale, about as useful to me as … well, a dictionary or questionnaire rating scale. It helps that she can tie ropes, dig holes, and follow my lead, like roll over in the general direction of the junk piles when we finally arrive at the Shipyard, my name for the clearing in the forest, where there’s another little shrine and something that looks a lot like a swimming pool. The rim is overgrown with moss and surrounded by heaps of scrap metal. Most of the scraps are oxidized, deformed, and unsalvageable, especially now that I’ve used what was salvageable on Hubert.

Still, I crouch and go through the piles, methodically at first, then less so. The odds of finding a propeller are slim. But so were the odds of finding any boat parts and yet, here we are: hull, rudder, tiller, motor, bolt, all accounted for. Just when I think, That’s it, my luck’s run out, I find another piece. What’s more, each piece seems to come from the same boat. It’s kind of magical. Everything about Hubert is. He came to me at a time when I needed him most. Don’t give up, the universe seemed to be saying on the day I met him. And I haven’t. I’m so close to finding Kay. My breath shortens as I think of her. A flash of sequins. A shriek of a laugh. A cherry-ice pop stained smile, the color red fleeting. Two hands joined, mine and hers. An impossibly white ladder, connecting sky to sea. We splash in and float for days.

When I linger in the memory, though, the water around us trembles. I see a boat, carried away by the waves. I hear a whisper—I’m sorry—laced with the sorrow of a goodbye.

Positive thoughts. It’s better to focus on the present. To break things down into manageable tasks. Build Hubert. Find Kay.

Build.

Find.

Build.

Find.

But dread poisons my thoughts anyway.

I drop the scrap in my hands. My knees crack as I rise. Pins needle my toes as I walk to the edge of the pool. It brims with rainwater, reflecting a wobbly image of me: a girl with straight, dark hair just past shoulder-length, face too pale and eyes black, if I have to guess. Along with my memories, I’ve lost my ability to see in color. Weird, I know. Weirder is what happens next. The image in the water shifts, and I’m looking at a reflection of Kay.

“Where are you?” she asks, her voice a quieter, deeper version of mine.

“I’m coming, love.”

“You’re forgetting.” I shake my head vehemently, but Kay goes on. “Look again,” she says. “You’re just seeing yourself.”

And I am.

The girl in the water isn’t Kay.

It’s me.

My pulse drums in my ears. Obviously, my sister isn’t here. But the Kay-of-my-mind is right: I am forgetting. When I dream of her, it’s in vibrant color, unlike the gradients of gray of my monochrome days. But everything is hazy when I wake. The details merge. The colors fade.

I screw my eyes shut as if to wring them out. Reopen them. The tiles at the bottom of the pool shimmer. The water seems to be calling my name.

Cee.

My feet move to the rim before I realize what I’m doing. I slap my cheeks. I’m awake. Not dreaming. Not sleepwalking. Definitely not going to end up in microbe soup.

One step after another, I back up. My chest tenses, like there’s a rubber band slung between it and the water. I’m half afraid my heart’s going to snap out when I tear myself away from the pool, but it remains firmly behind my ribs, pounding hard as I kneel back beside the junk pile.