The Ones We're Meant to Find(54)

But there are no hugs. No tears. Not from Kay’s end, anyway. She hasn’t moved since opening her eyes, and though I know she needs time and space, my worry builds until I can’t stay silent any longer.

“Are you okay?”

She draws a breath, reminding me to do the same. “Yes.” She lifts a hand, her nails trimmed practically short as always, and slowly curls her fingers shut. “Just the side effects of…” She trails off.

“Of…?”

“Take a seat, Cee.”

“Okay…” I look around at the seatless space. “Um—”

Four faucet heads rise from the ground before the casket, shooting out beams of red light that crisscross to form a cradle.

“Sit,” Kay repeats, and though I trust her, I still prepare to butt-plant on the ground as I lower myself onto the light-cradle.

It holds.

A nervous laugh escapes me. I just dove to the bottom of the sea, and now I’m sitting on some chair made out of light while Kay’s in a casket. Also, Kay is older than me, which—unless my memories are screwed up and spotty—isn’t right. I should be two and a half years older.

But I feel small under her gaze.

Guess I’ll start with the whole bottom-of-the-sea thing. “I thought we lived in some city in the sky,” I begin. “Which, I know—ridiculous.” So is this, says a voice in my head. “I’ve been having trouble remembering things, but I thought—”

“Tell me about your life on the island, Cee.”

“Oh.” Something in me sinks. I’m not sure what, or why. “It’s been all right,” I say with a shrug. “Not exactly comfy, but not bad, either.”

She’s nodding along, but she’s not really listening. Instead she’s looking at a … projection of some sort (holograph! I remember triumphantly) that’s rising up from the foot of the casket, filling the air between us with translucent images of graphs and numbers. She frowns as she considers them. “Calorie readings are a bit on the low side…”

“Oh yeah. There was a bit of an issue with the taros—”

“But happiness levels…” The frown deepens. “Cee. Has something happened?”

“I don’t think so?” I try to mimic Kay, squinting at the graphs, but all the numbers are backward to me. “What’s wrong, love?”

“Well there’s this spike right here…” She’s talking to herself again, but I look to what she’s referring to: a graph with a line, mostly stable, before the line randomly jumps up.

“It’s been nine hundred eighty-nine years,” mumbles Kay, “so it’s close to the estimated date, but if not for this spike … perhaps a couple years later … Cee.” Her gaze cuts to mine and I sit straighter. “Are you sure nothing unusual has occurred during your time on the island?”

“Unusual … like suddenly being able to see in color?”

She shakes her head. “Anything else?”

“Sleepwalking?”

“No, that would be…” More muttering. From what I recall, Kay never thinks out loud. She’s rubbing her right wrist too, like it pains her. She’s never done that before, either.

Concerned, I look to the graph again. I see the words HAPPINESS MOTIVATIONS running beneath the X axis. “I mean, like I was saying, living on the island hasn’t exactly been a blast, love. Maybe things got a little better with Hero around, but—”

“Who is this ‘Hero’?”

The sharpness of her voice startles me. “A—a boy.”

“A boy.” Kay’s gaze darkens. “Has he tried to hurt you, by any chance?”

The question prods at a memory of Kay telling me to be careful. She did that each time I went out. I smile. “Aw, love, I can take care of—”

“Cee. Tell me. Has this Hero ever tried to kill you?”

Kill.

I suddenly remember that we’re at the bottom of the sea, that I swam here after … after … he tried … and I did. Kill.

I killed him.

I didn’t mean to. And: “He didn’t mean to.” It sounds absurd, once I say it, but it’s true. The boy who tried to kill me didn’t recognize me, didn’t know me. He wasn’t Hero.

Kay sighs. “Well, you’re safe now.”

“So are you. You have no idea—” My voice breaks. No idea how hard I tried to find you. But words can’t convey that, so I violate my promise to give her space and lean in, through the holograph, and hug her.

She’s motionless under my arms. Then slowly, she pats my back.

“Cee,” she says when I pull back but keep my hands on her shoulders, marveling that she’s real and touchable and right in front of me. “Please. Have a seat.”

I plop back in the light-chair less warily this time. “Are we leaving now?” The room is cold and I’m not even the one sitting in goo.

“We are,” says Kay, then grips the sides of the casket. She pushes to her feet unsteadily. I reach out to help her, but my limbs won’t move. She steps one foot out of the pod, blue goo running down her leg and pooling on the ground, and my body stiffens. Her other foot joins the first, and my vision dims.