you as soon as I can. You should go now.”
And suddenly there’s the look—not as bad as I’d feared, not as blatant, but it’s there. She’s doubting me. I feel tears growing hot behind my eyes. “Please, Lucy—please. I’m not crazy.”
She purses her lips, thinking, then finally nods. “I believe you.”
“Thank you. Now go, and be careful.”
She leans in and kisses me, then squeezes my hand and turns to go. There are tears in her eyes. The other patients in the room are watching me, some quick and sharp, eyes darting to and fro, others staring slack-jawed, like they’re not even seeing me at all. Which ones should I be afraid of?
I take another bite of oatmeal, but it’s gone cold. I scan the room subtly, looking for Faceless Men, looking for cameras, looking for anything they might use to trigger my implant or read my mind. There’s a clock on the wall, black hands like scissors snapping closed on the number 10. Can a clock send a signal? What’s hiding behind it? They call it a clock face—what if it means—
“Michael?”
I turn with a start. The woman from before is standing behind me: the reporter.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I seem to be making a habit of startling you. I don’t mean to.”
“You…” I feel wordlessly uncomfortable.
“Kelly Fischer,” she says, holding out her hand, “from the Sun .”
I don’t take her hand. “You’re here.”
“Thanks for keeping quiet about me.” She pulls up a chair and sits. “You kind of freaked me out before, about you being a suspect, but my editor said to talk to you anyway—you’re not officially a suspect yet, so if I interview you now, before they announce it, we can scoop everybody else.”
Something about her feels wrong, somehow. I watch her carefully. She watches me, waiting for something, and when I don’t speak she leans forward, putting a hand on my knee. “Obviously we’re going to do everything we can to get you out of here, just like I promised.”
“How can I trust you?”
“We’re on your side, Michael, you’ve got to know that.” She pulls her notebook and pen from her purse and holds them up. “No recorder, like you said; just the pen. Now my friend at the hospital tells me you’ve lost some memory, is that correct?”
I watch her carefully, trying to analyze her words. What is she really after? It doesn’t give her anything to confirm what she already knows, so I shrug. “Yeah.”
“About two weeks’ worth?”
I nod.
“Listen, Michael, you’re going to have to be a little more talkative than this. Do you have any idea where you might have been during the two weeks you can’t remember?”
I study her face, warring with myself—do I say nothing? Do I say everything? How do I know where to stop in the middle? “Most of it’s a haze,” I say. “I can remember some things, silly things I guess, like a water faucet handle, but I don’t know where I was or why. I was under an overpass when the police found me, but I must have run because I fell out of a window. That’s when they finally … caught me.”
I get the most horrible feeling of déjà vu, and feel myself grow nauseous.
“Let’s go back further, then,” she says. “Have you had any contact with the Children of the Earth since you were an infant?”
“No, none.”
“You haven’t gone looking for them, or found any members of the cult?”
“Why would I go looking for them?”
“I’m grasping at straws here, Michael; if you’d say something substantive I wouldn’t have to drag it all out of you like this.”
“What do you expect me to say?”
“You told me before that you hated the Children of the Earth,” says Kelly, “and you said you’d sooner kill one than associate with him. What I’m asking is, did you ever act on that?”
The nervous flutters swirl sickly through my chest. “What?”
“You obviously hated them, you’ve obviously thought about it, and you proved at the hospital that
And suddenly there’s the look—not as bad as I’d feared, not as blatant, but it’s there. She’s doubting me. I feel tears growing hot behind my eyes. “Please, Lucy—please. I’m not crazy.”
She purses her lips, thinking, then finally nods. “I believe you.”
“Thank you. Now go, and be careful.”
She leans in and kisses me, then squeezes my hand and turns to go. There are tears in her eyes. The other patients in the room are watching me, some quick and sharp, eyes darting to and fro, others staring slack-jawed, like they’re not even seeing me at all. Which ones should I be afraid of?
I take another bite of oatmeal, but it’s gone cold. I scan the room subtly, looking for Faceless Men, looking for cameras, looking for anything they might use to trigger my implant or read my mind. There’s a clock on the wall, black hands like scissors snapping closed on the number 10. Can a clock send a signal? What’s hiding behind it? They call it a clock face—what if it means—
“Michael?”
I turn with a start. The woman from before is standing behind me: the reporter.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I seem to be making a habit of startling you. I don’t mean to.”
“You…” I feel wordlessly uncomfortable.
“Kelly Fischer,” she says, holding out her hand, “from the Sun .”
I don’t take her hand. “You’re here.”
“Thanks for keeping quiet about me.” She pulls up a chair and sits. “You kind of freaked me out before, about you being a suspect, but my editor said to talk to you anyway—you’re not officially a suspect yet, so if I interview you now, before they announce it, we can scoop everybody else.”
Something about her feels wrong, somehow. I watch her carefully. She watches me, waiting for something, and when I don’t speak she leans forward, putting a hand on my knee. “Obviously we’re going to do everything we can to get you out of here, just like I promised.”
“How can I trust you?”
“We’re on your side, Michael, you’ve got to know that.” She pulls her notebook and pen from her purse and holds them up. “No recorder, like you said; just the pen. Now my friend at the hospital tells me you’ve lost some memory, is that correct?”
I watch her carefully, trying to analyze her words. What is she really after? It doesn’t give her anything to confirm what she already knows, so I shrug. “Yeah.”
“About two weeks’ worth?”
I nod.
“Listen, Michael, you’re going to have to be a little more talkative than this. Do you have any idea where you might have been during the two weeks you can’t remember?”
I study her face, warring with myself—do I say nothing? Do I say everything? How do I know where to stop in the middle? “Most of it’s a haze,” I say. “I can remember some things, silly things I guess, like a water faucet handle, but I don’t know where I was or why. I was under an overpass when the police found me, but I must have run because I fell out of a window. That’s when they finally … caught me.”
I get the most horrible feeling of déjà vu, and feel myself grow nauseous.
“Let’s go back further, then,” she says. “Have you had any contact with the Children of the Earth since you were an infant?”
“No, none.”
“You haven’t gone looking for them, or found any members of the cult?”
“Why would I go looking for them?”
“I’m grasping at straws here, Michael; if you’d say something substantive I wouldn’t have to drag it all out of you like this.”
“What do you expect me to say?”
“You told me before that you hated the Children of the Earth,” says Kelly, “and you said you’d sooner kill one than associate with him. What I’m asking is, did you ever act on that?”
The nervous flutters swirl sickly through my chest. “What?”
“You obviously hated them, you’ve obviously thought about it, and you proved at the hospital that
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