The Ones We're Meant to Find(51)

I do know that the whirring begins at dawn. The vibration starts somewhere beneath his sternum and spreads outward, humming into my cheek. My mind’s too numb for thoughts, but my body reacts. I lift myself and stare down as color returns to his face and the gash to his temple fills itself in with silvery skin that turns a shade of flesh.

And then Hero, the boy I killed, takes his first breath.





26


“ACTIVATE.”

From the depths of the pod, a pair of lights turned on.

“Hello, C,” Kasey intoned.

The lights blinked.





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CEE. FIND ME.

The voice takes over my body and mind. Emotionless, I move, not understanding what I’m doing until it’s already done.

I’ve carried Hero back into the house and placed him on the mattress-less bed frame. I’ve tied him—everywhere. Arms. Legs. Body. All trussed to the bedposts. He’ll be in for a nasty surprise when he wakes, but I don’t care. Can’t care. Can’t feel relief over the fact he’s still alive. Can’t feel apprehension over the ramifications of the only human I know being … not so human after all.

I don’t know what he is.

I don’t know if I’m like him.

There’s only one way to find out.

I step out of the house and onto the sand. Grains push through my toes, dry and cold, then cold and damp. As I walk, I imagine the stars above me to be a million blinking eyes. What do they see? A girl in a baggy sweater, drawing a not-quite-straight trail of footprints down the beach?

Stars or eyes, they can’t know my intentions, and when I reach the waterline, I realize neither do I. I’m just following the pull of my gut, the same one that draws me to the pool beyond the meadow. Now it leads me to sea. I bet it always has, even when I’m asleep. There’s a fishing hook caught inside me. The silver thread of moonlight spooling over the waves is the line. It disappears into the waters of the deep.

Without thinking, I step in. The surf immediately washes over the backs of my feet. Welcome, it seems to be saying, clasping my ankles like the hands of long-lost friends. The water’s cold, but I don’t mind it, don’t feel it as I take another step in, and another, each one easier than the last. It could be even easier—and faster—if I lay myself down and close my eyes, let the waves carry me out like a raft. But I can’t do that, can’t surrender the little control I have over what I believe. And what I believe is simple:

I could still turn back, if I wanted to.

The waves reach my chest. The water buoys me off my toes. I stop walking, and swim. My strokes are flawless. My strength is endless. I swim until the eyes of the universe blink their final blinks and the moon submits to the sun. Mist blankets the waves, silver. I enjoy the light of the waking day for all but a moment before I take a deep breath, and plunge.

I dive.

And dive.

The distance between me and the surface widens. I’ve gone too deep. The weight of the world above could pulverize me. But I can’t bring myself to panic, not even when the pressure in my chest builds and the primal need for air wins out over the need to survive.

I breathe in the ocean. It scorches my nasal passage and blazes down my throat, burning every centimeter of the way. Pain without panic. Without panic, my body keeps on breathing and breathing, drowning and drowning.

Then the pain stops.

Everything’s quiet as I dive, deep and deeper.

Deep, past schools of speckled fish, slim like darts. Past fat brown fish with noodle-like whiskers. Past fish with fins sharp as knives …

Deeper, to a place where there are no fish …

The puffer fish tattoo on the bodyworker’s arm flexes as she wheels in a pushcart filled with scalpels. I know I should be scrutinizing these archaic-looking instruments before they go into my brain, but I can’t look away from the fish, especially when it changes color, from blue to violet, then hot pink as she hands me a flask.

“Drink up.”

She snaps on a pair of gloves as I down the stuff. It’s thicker and sweeter than I expected. I cough on the dregs. “Nice tat,” I croak as she takes the empty flask.

“Eli can throw one in for an extra fifty while you’re under. Right, Eli?”

A grunt comes from the next-door operating room, followed by the squeal of a drill.

This is what I want, I remind myself. A place where they don’t check ID. Someone will take my place in this chair the moment I’m out.

No one will remember I came through.

“Maybe in the future,” I say to the bodyworker as she puts on a surgical mask, then goggles. They remind me of Kasey . I swallow.

“In a sec, the neuron-damper will kick in. The operation itself will last fifteen minutes. You’re free to pick up two doses of painkillers on your way out. Post-surg complications are on you. Got any burning questions, ask them now.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

The bodyworker pauses and finally seems to see me. For a second, I think she’s going to ask if I’m sure I want to do this. It’s not every day someone requests an Intraface extraction. I also don’t look like the typical clientele.

“It might leave a scar,” she says in the end.

A scar. I almost laugh and say, Have you seen my face? But of course she hasn’t. I’m hiding beneath a millimeter of concealer. My brain is high on psychdels. Without the pills, I wouldn’t even have been able to walk myself down here. A glance at my vitals would reveal everything wrong with me.