telephone receiver, lying in a fetal position, stiff polyester carpet fibers stamped hard into one cheek. Her skin is mine, and it is too tight—like a cooked sausage pushing at its casing. The psychic noise pushes back on me from all sides. It’s worse now. I gain some sense that this noise has been festering for a while, but now it’s consuming me whole. It’s invaded my every cell. I am nothing but this painful, piercing noise.
I have a telephone receiver cradled to my ear, propped beside me on the carpet. “Please,” I rasp into the perforated holes. “Send someone.” My thumb strokes back and forth against the faded rose pattern on the pillbox’s lid. “Your cyanide didn’t work.”
The phone crackles with a voice tinged in frost. “You must finish the mission.”
“Please.” Speaking is so hard. I can barely feel the word pushing through my vocal cords. I’m strangled by my own psychic noise. “Please kill me.”
A labored inhalation, or maybe it’s the static in the phone line turning the caller’s breath into crackling squares of noise. “You must reach Senator Saxton.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The pillbox slips through my fingers. The carpet fibers pressing into my temple are damp, hot with the smell of copper. “It’s too late for me.”
I fling myself out of the chattering white void and choke down fresh air. As soon as I’ve let go of the pillbox, I clamp my hand onto Cindy’s wrist and let what I’ve just seen pour back out of me.
“Yulia!—” she pleads, her tone suddenly sharp and high. The tone of panic and pain. I want her to feel this pain, too. I shouldn’t be the only one subjected to such misery. She needs to know what I’m capable of, what these scrubbers are like. I won’t suffer alone—
Bozhe moi. My anger is suddenly gone, poured out of me and into Cindy. I pry my hand away.
“Cindy—Miss Conrad—I am so sorry—” I dump the shoebox onto the ground and curl my arms around my legs, ignoring the twinge from my bad ankle. “I wanted you to see the memory, but I—”
Cindy’s breathing heavily; she runs a hand against her taut, silky hair. “No harm done.” Her eyelids flutter rapid fire. “Is—is that how you shared your findings with your KGB mentors?”
No. I was only a tarpaulin strung between trees, collecting memories like rainwater, then waiting for Rostov to wring every last drop from me. I shake my head and lower my legs back down, trying to match Cindy as she schools herself to calmness.
“Very well. It was my choice to push you.” She raises her chin, regal. “So this woman appears to be a—a scrubber, as well.”
I take a slow breath. “I think so. And she was dying. Whatever is causing the bleeding from her ears—the psychic noise—I think she was in great pain, and she tried to end it with a cyanide pill.” I tighten my hands into fists, trying to squeeze down the dark memories lingering against them. “Do you know this Senator Saxton they mentioned?”
“I’m afraid so.” Cindy stands, bracelets jangling. “Wait right here.”
While Cindy digs around in her desk, I try to keep balance on the couch, as it threatens to reel me in again. Someone laughs from behind me, a snorting sound. I peer over the edge to find Marylou flat on her back on the floor. She’s chain-smoking clove cigarettes, and her hair makes her look like she’s escaped a volcanic eruption because she keeps undershooting the ashtray by her head. “That was real groovy,” she says.
“What? You heard us?”
“Yeah. I liked what you did with your box of stuff.” Her pupils are cavernous pits, inviting me in. I can’t read the look on her face, both bleary and frighteningly incisive, and I don’t like it. “It’s like you’re reaching through the time-space continuum, you know? And, like, knotting it all together.”
I creep back on the couch. “Thanks.” The silence between us swells. “I did not … know you were down
I have a telephone receiver cradled to my ear, propped beside me on the carpet. “Please,” I rasp into the perforated holes. “Send someone.” My thumb strokes back and forth against the faded rose pattern on the pillbox’s lid. “Your cyanide didn’t work.”
The phone crackles with a voice tinged in frost. “You must finish the mission.”
“Please.” Speaking is so hard. I can barely feel the word pushing through my vocal cords. I’m strangled by my own psychic noise. “Please kill me.”
A labored inhalation, or maybe it’s the static in the phone line turning the caller’s breath into crackling squares of noise. “You must reach Senator Saxton.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The pillbox slips through my fingers. The carpet fibers pressing into my temple are damp, hot with the smell of copper. “It’s too late for me.”
I fling myself out of the chattering white void and choke down fresh air. As soon as I’ve let go of the pillbox, I clamp my hand onto Cindy’s wrist and let what I’ve just seen pour back out of me.
“Yulia!—” she pleads, her tone suddenly sharp and high. The tone of panic and pain. I want her to feel this pain, too. I shouldn’t be the only one subjected to such misery. She needs to know what I’m capable of, what these scrubbers are like. I won’t suffer alone—
Bozhe moi. My anger is suddenly gone, poured out of me and into Cindy. I pry my hand away.
“Cindy—Miss Conrad—I am so sorry—” I dump the shoebox onto the ground and curl my arms around my legs, ignoring the twinge from my bad ankle. “I wanted you to see the memory, but I—”
Cindy’s breathing heavily; she runs a hand against her taut, silky hair. “No harm done.” Her eyelids flutter rapid fire. “Is—is that how you shared your findings with your KGB mentors?”
No. I was only a tarpaulin strung between trees, collecting memories like rainwater, then waiting for Rostov to wring every last drop from me. I shake my head and lower my legs back down, trying to match Cindy as she schools herself to calmness.
“Very well. It was my choice to push you.” She raises her chin, regal. “So this woman appears to be a—a scrubber, as well.”
I take a slow breath. “I think so. And she was dying. Whatever is causing the bleeding from her ears—the psychic noise—I think she was in great pain, and she tried to end it with a cyanide pill.” I tighten my hands into fists, trying to squeeze down the dark memories lingering against them. “Do you know this Senator Saxton they mentioned?”
“I’m afraid so.” Cindy stands, bracelets jangling. “Wait right here.”
While Cindy digs around in her desk, I try to keep balance on the couch, as it threatens to reel me in again. Someone laughs from behind me, a snorting sound. I peer over the edge to find Marylou flat on her back on the floor. She’s chain-smoking clove cigarettes, and her hair makes her look like she’s escaped a volcanic eruption because she keeps undershooting the ashtray by her head. “That was real groovy,” she says.
“What? You heard us?”
“Yeah. I liked what you did with your box of stuff.” Her pupils are cavernous pits, inviting me in. I can’t read the look on her face, both bleary and frighteningly incisive, and I don’t like it. “It’s like you’re reaching through the time-space continuum, you know? And, like, knotting it all together.”
I creep back on the couch. “Thanks.” The silence between us swells. “I did not … know you were down
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