from Celine, this is basically a polite inquiry. I give her my best smile. “This friendship thing is going really well, don’t you think?” I am testing the waters. If she says Sure is, handsome, and licks my neck, I’ll take that as a green light. Celine props herself up on her elbows to look down at me—but she doesn’t get up. “Am I squashing you?” “No.” “Okay.” Her gaze avoids mine and her round cheeks hollow a little bit, like she’s nibbling the insides. This close, she is all gleaming darkness and shiny pink makeup and long eyelashes that flutter away from me. “Um. Yes. It is. Going. Well.” I beam. “That was great, Cel. Deeply emotional. Ten out of ten.” She rolls her eyes, but she still hasn’t moved. I’m feeling very optimistic about this, if you ignore the way my stomach is churning with nerves and terrible potential futures are flashing against the back of my skull like a sped-up cinema reel. I throw a very thick, dark curtain in front of the screen and say, “I’m going to suggest something.” She is rightly suspicious. “What?” “Do you. I mean. Would you…like…to…” Whew. This is harder than I thought. My heart is playing a drum solo right now. How did I get Isabella to make out with me? Oh yes, I remember now: I said, “Bella, I really like you,” and she handled the rest. But if I tell Celine I like her, she’ll probably jump out of the window as a reflex. For some reason that makes my heart hurt. And yet… “Celine, I really like you.” She rolls off me and lands on the floor with a very loud thud. Well, crap. I scramble to the edge of the bed just as she pops up like a daisy. “Everything all right up there?” Dad shouts. “Dropped a book,” I shout back. “Sorry,” Celine says breathlessly, rubbing her hip. “Didn’t realize the…floor was…there.” Then she smiles brightly. My stomach plummets into the earth’s core. “Oh God. You don’t like me.” Her jaw drops. “What are you talking about, Bradley? Of course I like you!” “Right.” I nod rapidly, trying not to die of embarrassment. Sadbarrassment. “Of course! We’re friends!” “That’s what you meant, right?” she asks. “As friends.” That is very sweet of her, to give me an out. Except she’s still smiling—not one of her normal, accidental smiles where her eyes scrunch up into dark shiny gems, but a perfect, polite smile that seems nervous. Or anxious. Or…something else I don’t want her to be. “Well, no,” I say slowly. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. There is an enormous possibility I am making things worse— Which might be worth the tiniest possibility of making them better. “No,” I repeat, more confident now. (If I’m going to do things wrong, I might as well do them with style and conviction.) “When I pulled you on top of me and, you know, gazed dreamily into your eyes and said I liked you, I did not mean as friends.


CHAPTER V THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it. But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty. "Tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha. "It tastes nice today," said Mary, feeling a little surprised her self. "It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller." "I don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with." "Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with sticks and stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." Mary did not shout, but she looked at things. There was nothing else to do. She walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if


meant was that I'd rather not give an opinion till I've heard what Madame Olenska has to say." Mr. Letterblair nodded approvingly at an excess of caution worthy of the best New York tradition, and the young man, glancing at his watch, pleaded an engagement and took leave. XII. Old-fashioned New York dined at seven, and the habit of after-dinner calls, though derided in Archer's set, still generally prevailed. As the young man strolled up Fifth Avenue from Waverley Place, the long thoroughfare was deserted but for a group of carriages standing before the Reggie Chiverses' (where there was a dinner for the Duke), and the occasional figure of an elderly gentleman in heavy overcoat and muffler ascending a brownstone doorstep and disappearing into a gas-lit hall. Thus, as Archer crossed Washington Square, he remarked that old Mr. du Lac was calling on his cousins the Dagonets, and turning down the corner of West Tenth Street he saw Mr. Skipworth, of his own firm, obviously bound on a visit to the Miss Lannings. A little farther up Fifth Avenue, Beaufort appeared on his doorstep, darkly projected against a blaze of light, descended to his private brougham, and rolled away to a mysterious and probably unmentionable destination. It was not an Opera night, and no one was giving a party, so that Beaufort's outing was undoubtedly of a clandestine nature. Archer connected it in his mind with a little house beyond Lexington Avenue in which beribboned window curtains and flower-boxes had recently appeared, and before whose newly painted door the canary-coloured brougham of Miss Fanny Ring was frequently seen to wait. Beyond the small and slippery pyramid which composed Mrs. Archer's world lay the almost unmapped quarter inhabited by artists, musicians and "people who wrote." These scattered fragments of humanity had never shown any desire to be amalgamated with the social structure. In spite of odd ways they were said to be, for the most part, quite respectable; but they preferred to keep to themselves. Medora Manson, in her prosperous days, had inaugurated a "literary salon"; but it had soon died out owing to the reluctance of the literary to frequent it. Others had made the same attempt, and there was a household of Blenkers--an intense and voluble mother, and three blowsy daughters who imitated her--where one met Edwin Booth and Patti and William Winter, and the new Shakespearian actor George Rignold, and some of the magazine editors and musical and literary critics. Mrs. Archer and her group felt a certain timidity concerning these persons. They were odd, they were uncertain, they had things one didn't know about in the background of their lives and minds. Literature and art were deeply respected in the Archer set, and Mrs. Archer was always at pains to tell her children how much more agreeable and cultivated society had been when it included such figures as Washington Irving, Fitz-Greene Halleck and the poet of "The Culprit Fay." The most celebrated authors of that generation had been "gentlemen"; perhaps the unknown persons who succeeded them had gentlemanly sentiments,


it—and how you managed not to break it.” “You can buy me one for my birthday,” I smirk at him. Christian’s mouth drops open as I climb out of the car. “A white one, I think,” I add, leaning down and smirking at him. He smiles. “Anastasia Grey, you never cease to amaze me.” I shut the door and walk to the end of the car to wait for him. Gracefully he climbs out, watching me with that look . . . that look that calls to something deep inside me. I know this look well. Once he’s in front of me, he leans down and whispers, “You like the car. I like the car. I’ve fucked you in it . . . perhaps I should fuck you on it.” I gasp. And a sleek silver BMW pulls into the garage. Christian glances at it anxiously, then with annoyance and smirks down at me. “But it looks like we have company. Come.” He grabs my hand and heads for the garage elevator. He pushes the call button and as we wait, the driver of the BMW joins us. He’s young, casually dressed, with long, layered, dark hair. He looks like he works in the media. “Hi,” he says, smiling warmly at us. Christian puts his arm around me and nods politely. “I’ve just moved in. Apartment sixteen.” “Hello.” I return his smile. He has kind, soft brown eyes. The elevator arrives and we all walk in. Christian glances down at me, his ex- pression unreadable. 110/551 “You’re Christian Grey,” the young man says. Christian gives him a tight smile. “Noah Logan.” He holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Christian takes it. “Which floor?” Noah asks. “I have to input a code.” “Oh.” “Penthouse.” “Oh.” Noah smiles broadly. “Of course.” He presses the button for the eighth floor and the doors close. “Mrs. Grey, I presume.” “Yes.” I give him a polite smile and we shake hands. Noah flushes a little as he gazes at me a fraction too long. I mirror his flush and Christian’s arm tightens around me. “When did you move in?” I ask. “Last weekend. I love the place.” There’s an awkward pause before the elevator stops at Noah’s floor. “Great to meet you both,” he says sounding relieved and steps out. The doors close silently behind him. Christian taps in the entry code and the elevator ascends again. “He seemed nice,” I murmur. “I’ve never met any of the neighbors before.” Christian scowls. “I prefer it that way.” “That’s because you’re a hermit. I thought he was pleasant enough.” “A hermit?” “Hermit. Stuck in your ivory tower,” I state matter-of-factly. Christian’s lips twitch with amusement. “Our ivory tower. And I think you have another name to add to the list of your admirers, Mrs. Grey.” I roll my eyes. “Christian, you think everyone is an admirer.” “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” My pulse quickens. “I sure did,” I whisper, my breath catching in my throat. He cocks his head to one side, wearing his smoldering, arrogant,


United States. The options are known by an anodyne name—PEADs—or “presidential emergency action documents.” Recently declassified records suggest that the PEADs allow the president to invoke extraordinary powers. The records hint at draft authorizations to enable the White House to unilaterally detain “dangerous persons,” censor the news media, flip an internet “kill switch,” take over social media, and suspend Americans from traveling. These might be the type of actions a president would take if the nation’s capital was destroyed, enemy forces were hunting down U.S. leaders, or the survival of U.S. democracy was in doubt. Mark Harvey was once the keeper of the book. He served on the NSC during the Trump administration and referred to the manual as “the Mad Libs for the most extreme measures of government.” While Harvey wouldn’t confirm or deny the PEAD contents, his job was “to advise whether to pull out that book and go through these extraordinary decisions,” which he said could be implemented by the nation’s chief executive “with the stroke of a pen.” He was always on hair-trigger alert. When Donald Trump was in office, senior aides like Harvey were concerned about protecting access to the PEAD documents. Inexperienced MAGA types roamed the White House halls daily, and NSC experts knew that, in the wrong hands, the special powers could be dangerous. Would someone suggest that Trump try to use the documents for non-emergency situations? Would they try to manufacture a crisis so that he could invoke presidential emergency actions? The nightmare nearly came true. In Trump’s final year in office, the White House sought to put a loyalist into one of the jobs with access to the Doomsday Book. According to sources, that person was Christina Bobb. The Trump staffer—who later became a reporter for the MAGA-friendly One America News Network (OANN) and served as a personal attorney to the ex-president at Mar-a-Lago—was seen by the White House as a diehard Trump supporter. They wanted her on the NSC. “I worked every person I knew to make sure that Christina Bobb didn’t get assigned to the National Security Council,” explained an individual closely involved with the situation, noting that the woman was dangerously unqualified. Career officials believed that Bobb was the type of ideologue who might misuse the sensitive NSC perch. “We were a hair’s width away from her taking the role,” the former official remarked. Bobb was later involved in Trump’s efforts to overturn the 2020 election. Former NSC staffers believe the coup plot would have been dramatically heightened if someone like Bobb had been given access to the Doomsday Book. Indeed, the president and his lawyers might have tried to use the orders to justify seizing Americans’ ballots, nationalizing social media companies like Twitter, or rounding up the political opposition. A former White House lawyer familiar with the situation confirmed that Trump was in the dark. The president didn’t have full knowledge of his emergency authorities, and no one who was “in the know” wanted to brief him. If Trump had been made aware of the full extent of the


She got me in the end. As always. And now her work was done. “I don’t know,” she said with a cheerful shrug before turning to walk away. “It’s just so fun to watch you fall apart.” I blinked after her for a second, and then I turned to push out the doors and escape into the sunshine. But as I did, all that building anger somehow shot into my arm like a bolt of lightning—and I accidentally on purpose slammed the coffee-shop door behind me. The glass coffee-shop door. Which, apparently—I was about to discover—had a broken soft-close hinge. Because when I slammed it? It slammed. Hard. It felt satisfying for a second, I’ll admit. But then, as if in slo-mo, all the glass popped, shattered, and rained to the floor. I turned back at the sound and stared at the violence of what I’d done. The gaping hole of the empty doorframe. Glass everywhere. People staring. All movement and conversation frozen. A teenager started filming with his phone. I put my hand to my mouth. I looked up and saw Hazel One over by the coffee station. She was the first person to spring into action, and she grabbed a broom and a dustpan and came my way. “I’m so sorry,” I said as she got close. “I didn’t mean to do that.” Then, of course: “I’ll pay for it. I’ll fix it.” I’d figure it out somehow. “Don’t worry,” Hazel One said kindly. “The hinge is broken. Happens all the time.” It definitely did not happen all the time. But I was too mortified to argue. And then the craziest, trippiest, most unreal thing I’ve ever seen in my life happened right before my eyes. Hazel One leaned her broom against the doorjamb for a second, preparing to start sweeping up the mess, and she pulled out a ponytail holder from her apron pocket, lifted her hands behind her head to twist her hair into it, and when she dropped her hands again … she was Hazel Two. What I’m saying is this: Hazel One always wore her brown hair down, and Hazel Two always wore her brown hair in a ponytail—and that’s how I could tell them apart. And in that one impossible moment, I watched Hazel One become Hazel Two right before my eyes. Like a horror movie. I gasped out loud at the sight. “Wait…” I said, taking a step back. “What just happened?” “When?” Hazel Two asked, starting to sweep. “Are you Hazel One or Hazel Two?” Now she looked up. I could feel the confusion in her expression. “Huh?” “Of the two Hazels who work here,” I said, with a feeling like this question was already doomed, “which one are you?” A pause. Then she shook her head. “I’m the only Hazel who works here.” “Always?” I asked. “Has there ever been another Hazel working here?” “Nope,” Hazel said, getting back to sweeping. “Just me.” Oh, my god. There was only one Hazel who worked here. The girl with the bob and the girl


“Keep still,” he says. “And don’t let go.” “Ah.” “This is lube.” He spreads some more on me. I try not to wriggle beneath him, but my heart is pounding, my pulse haywire, as desire and anxiety pump through me. “I have wanted to do this to you for some time now, Ana.” I groan. And I feel something cool, metallically cool, run down my spine. “I have a small present for you here,” Christian whispers. An image from our show-and-tell springs to mind. Holy cow. A butt plug. Christian runs it down the parting between my buttocks. Oh my. “I am going to push this inside you, very slowly.” I gasp, anticipation and anxiety charging through me. “Will it hurt?” “No, baby. It’s small. Once it’s inside you, I’m going to fuck you real hard.” I practically convulse. Bending over me, he kisses me once more between my shoulder blades. “Ready?” he whispers. Ready? Am I ready for this? “Yes,” I mutter quietly, my mouth dry. He runs another finger down past my ass and perineum and slips it inside me. Fuck, it’s his thumb. He cups my sex and his fingers gently caress my clitoris. I moan . . . it feels . . . good. And gently, while his fingers and thumb work their magic, he pushes the cold plug slowly into me. 118/551 “Ah!” I groan loudly at the unfamiliar sensation, my muscles protesting at the intrusion. He circles his thumb inside me and pushes the plug harder, and it slips in easily, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m so turned on or if he’s distracted me with his expert fingers, but my body seems to accept it. It’s heavy . . . and strange . . . there! “Oh, baby.” And I can feel it . . . where his thumb swirls inside me . . . and the plug presses against . . . oh, ah . . . He slowly twists the plug, eliciting a long drawn-out moan from me. “Christian,” I mumble, his name a garbled mantra, as I adjust to the sensation. “Good girl,” he murmurs. He runs his free hand down my side until it reaches my hip. Slowly he withdraws his thumb, and I hear the telltale sound of his zipper opening. Grasping my other hip, he pulls me back and parts my legs further, his foot pushing against mine. “Don’t let go of the table, Ana,” he warns. “No,” I gasp. “Something rough? Tell me if I’m too rough. Understand?” “Yes,” I whisper, and he slams into me and pulls me onto him at the same time, jolting the plug forward, deeper . . . “Fuck!” I cry out. He stills, his breathing harsher and my panting matches his. I try to assimilate all the sensations: the delicious fullness, the tantalizing feeling that I am doing something forbidden, the erotic pleasure that spirals outward from deep within me. He pulls gently on the plug. Oh jeez . . . I moan, and I hear his sharp intake of


accept the inevitable, is why he didn’t see fit to tell us. Or maybe, my mother later theorized, laughing and crying at once, he wanted to spare us the knowledge: It might have been the one truly noble act of his life. By then, I was afraid of losing her, too. I didn’t know what to believe. I still don’t know what I want to believe. In my memory, my father wasn’t prone to hiding the truth in order to comfort others. But neither was he prone to visions. Was it really there, the ladder he saw that day, propped up against the snowcapped summit? Of course it wasn’t. I am sure that he imagined it. But I can’t claim to know what it means that he did. 10 Grief comes in waves, everyone says. After my father’s death, I kept waiting to be buffeted, swept under. I was sure that his loss was all I would be able to feel once the shock began to ebb. In the days leading up to his funeral, I carried the knowledge that he was gone in my tight chest, my aching throat, my stomach that felt as though I’d swallowed a riverbed’s worth of stones. I both feared and hoped that traveling home, seeing my mother, would allow my grief to flow more freely. But we hadn’t yet landed in Oregon when I became aware of a pervasive everyday frustration boiling beneath the sorrow. The flights were long and stressful, and our nine-year-old kept looking either surly or sick when we tried to talk with her—loquacious since toddlerhood, suddenly she was limiting herself to one-word, irritable answers, shaking her head when we asked a question or expressed concern. Her little sister, usually a good traveler, was likewise short-tempered and clingy. Their moods did not improve once we arrived. Though Dan did his best to manage them, trying to spare me further strain, I was aware every time the kids fussed or fought, wavering between vexation and worry. It wasn’t their fault, I tried to tell myself—how were they supposed to know what to do with death at their ages? I was nearly a decade into parenting; I should be accustomed to putting aside my own feelings and needs when necessary. But the sight of my mother trying to cheer up her cranky grandchildren the night before she buried her husband made me feel raw and resentful, and I began to wish that I had left the rest of my family at home. At least then I would have been able to focus on my mother, and she wouldn’t be forced to placate my children instead of attending to her own grief. I texted my friends: There is no room at all for my feelings with the kids here. They were all sympathetic, but they reminded me that it was important for my children to be there. Even if they weren’t super close to your dad, it’s their first experience with death. They need to be able to witness it and say goodbye. I knew


and there and came at last to this: " `It is computed that eleven thousand persons have at several times suffered death rather than submit to break eggs at the smaller end."' Mildred sat across the hall from him. "What does it mean? It doesn't mean anything! The Captain was right! " "Here now," said Montag. "We'll start over again, at the beginning." PART II THE SIEVE AND THE SAND THEY read the long afternoon through, while the cold November rain fell from the sky upon the quiet house. They sat in the hall because the parlour was so empty and grey-looking without its walls lit with orange and yellow confetti and sky-rockets and women in gold-mesh dresses and men in black velvet pulling one-hundred-pound rabbits from silver hats. The parlour was dead and Mildred kept peering in at it with a blank expression as Montag paced the floor and came back and squatted down and read a page as many as ten times, aloud. " `We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over, so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.'" Montag sat listening to the rain. "Is that what it was in the girl next door? I've tried so hard to figure." "She's dead. Let's talk about someone alive, for goodness' sake." Montag did not look back at his wife as he went trembling along the hall to the kitchen, where he stood a long .time watching the rain hit the windows before he came back down the hall in the grey light, waiting for the tremble to subside. He opened another book. " `That favourite subject, Myself."' He squinted at the wall. " `The favourite subject, Myself."' "I understand that one," said Mildred. "But Clarisse's favourite subject wasn't herself. It was everyone else, and me. She was the first person in a good many years I've really liked. She was the first person I can remember who looked straight at me as if I counted." He lifted the two books. "These men have been dead a long time, but I know their words point, one way or another, to Clansse." Outside the front door, in the rain, a faint scratching. Montag froze. He saw Mildred thrust herself back to the wall and gasp. "I shut it off." "Someone--the door--why doesn't the door-voice tell us--" Under the door-sill, a slow, probing sniff, an exhalation of electric steam. Mildred laughed. "It's only a dog, that's what! You want me to shoo him away?" "Stay where you are!" Silence. The cold rain falling. And the smell of blue electricity blowing under the locked door. "Let's get back to work," said Montag quietly. Mildred kicked at a book. "Books aren't people. You read and I look around, but there isn't anybody!" He stared at the parlour that was dead and grey as the waters of an ocean that might teem with life if


be the very happiest woman the sun shines on."     I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester's project of marrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first discovered that such was his intention; I had thought him a man unlikely to be influenced by motives so commonplace in choice of a wife; but the longer I considered the position, education, etc., of the parties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming either him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood. All their class held these principles; I supposed, then, they had reasons for holding them such as I could not fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him, I would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the very obviousness of the advantages to the husband's own happiness, offered by this plan, convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption of which I was quite ignorant; otherwise I felt sure all the world would act as I wished to act.     But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to my master. I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a sharp lookout. It had formerly been my endeavor to study all sides of his character; to take the bad with the good; and from the just weighing of both to form an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish; their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid. And as for the vague something was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expression? that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, in his eye, and closed again before one could fathom the strange depth partially disclosed: that something which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wandering among volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground quiver, and seen it gape; that something I at intervals beheld still, and with throbbing heart, but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to dare to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets, and analyze their nature.     Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride saw only them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their movements of importance the rest of the party were occupied with their own separate interests and pleasures. The ladies Lynn and Ingram continued to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their two turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts,—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever.—but only in theory. How it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s departure; but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby’s. The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions. After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw quite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation. “I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed. “Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.” I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness. As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—”Not yet; I am occupied.” It was Bartleby. I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia,


so defenceless on account of my first error. I cannot say more about this--it makes me too miserable. But if I break down by falling into some fearful snare, my last state will be worse than my first. O God, I cannot think of it! Let me come at once, or at once come to me! I would be content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant, if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine. The daylight has nothing to show me, since you are not here, and I don't like to see the rooks and starlings in the field, because I grieve and grieve to miss you who used to see them with me. I long for only one thing in heaven or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own dear! Come to me--come to me, and save me from what threatens me!--Your faithful heartbroken TESS XLIX The appeal duly found its way to the breakfast-table of the quiet Vicarage to the westward, in that valley where the air is so soft and the soil so rich that the effort of growth requires but superficial aid by comparison with the tillage at Flintcomb-Ash, and where to Tess the human world seemed so different (though it was much the same). It was purely for security that she had been requested by Angel to send her communications through his father, whom he kept pretty well informed of his changing addresses in the country he had gone to exploit for himself with a heavy heart. "Now," said old Mr Clare to his wife, when he had read the envelope, "if Angel proposes leaving Rio for a visit home at the end of next month, as he told us that he hoped to do, I think this may hasten his plans; for I believe it to be from his wife." He breathed deeply at the thought of her; and the letter was redirected to be promptly sent on to Angel. "Dear fellow, I hope he will get home safely," murmured Mrs Clare. "To my dying day I shall feel that he had been ill-used. You should have sent him to Cambridge in spite of his want of faith, and given him the same chance as the other boys had. He would have grown out of it under proper influence, and perhaps would have taken Orders after all. Church or no Church, it would have been fairer to him." This was the only wail with which Mrs Clare ever disturbed her husband's peace in respect to their sons. And she did not vent this often; for she was as considerate as she was devout, and knew that his mind too was troubled by doubts as to his justice in this matter. Only too often had she heard him lying awake at night, stifling sighs for Angel with prayers. But the uncompromising Evangelical did not even now hold that he would have been justified


Ah’d do. He kin take most any lil thing and make summertime out of it when times is dull. Then we lives offa dat happiness he made till some mo’ hap- piness come along.” “You’se different from me. Ah can’t stand black niggers. Ah don’t blame de white folks from hatin’ ’em ’cause Ah can’t stand ’em mahself. ’Nother thing, Ah hates tuh see folks lak me and you mixed up wid ’em. Us oughta class off.” “Us can’t do it. We’se uh mingled people and all of us got black kinfolks as well as yaller kinfolks. How come you so against black?” “And dey makes me tired. Always laughin’! Dey laughs too much and dey laughs too loud. Always singin’ ol’ nigger songs! Always cuttin’ de monkey for white folks. If it wuzn’t 166 Zora Neale Hurston for so many black folks it wouldn’t be no race problem. De white folks would take us in wid dem. De black ones is holdin’ us back.” “You reckon? ’course Ah ain’t never thought about it too much. But Ah don’t figger dey even gointuh want us for com- p’ny. We’se too poor.” “’Tain’t de poorness, it’s de color and de features. Who want any lil ole black baby layin’ up in de baby buggy lookin’ lak uh fly in buttermilk? Who wants to be mixed up wid uh rusty black man, and uh black woman goin’ down de street in all dem loud colors, and whoopin’ and hollerin’ and laughin’ over nothin’? Ah don’t know. Don’t bring me no nigger doc- tor tuh hang over mah sick-bed. Ah done had six chillun— wuzn’t lucky enough tuh raise but dat one—and ain’t never had uh nigger tuh even feel mah pulse. White doctors always gits mah money. Ah don’t go in no nigger store tuh buy nothin’ neither. Colored folks don’t know nothin’ ’bout no business. Deliver me!” Mrs. Turner was almost screaming in fanatical earnestness by now. Janie was dumb and bewildered before and she clucked sympathetically and wished she knew what to say. It was so evident that Mrs. Turner took black folk as a personal affront to herself. “Look at me! Ah ain’t got no flat nose and liver lips. Ah’m uh featured woman. Ah got white folks’ features in mah face. Still and all Ah got tuh be lumped in wid all de rest. It ain’t fair. Even if dey don’t take us in wid de whites, dey oughta make us uh class tuh ourselves.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 167 “It don’t worry me atall, but Ah reckon Ah ain’t got no real head fur thinkin’.” “You oughta meet mah brother. He’s real smart. Got dead straight hair. Dey made him uh delegate tuh de Sunday School Convention and he read uh paper on Booker T. Washington and tore him tuh pieces!” “Booker T.? He wuz a great big man, wusn’t he?” “’Sposed tuh be. All he ever done was cut de monkey for white folks. So dey pomped him up. But you know whut de ole folks say


Melkor knew well. Though all tides and seasons were at the will of the Valar, and in Valinor there was no winter of death, nonetheless they dwelt then in the Kingdom of Arda, and that was but a small realm in the halls of E, whose life is Time, which flows ever from the first note to the last chord of Eru. And even as it was then the delight of the Valar (as is told in the Ainulindal) to clothe themselves as in a vesture in the forms of the Children of Ilvatar, so also did they eat and drink, and gather the fruits of Yavanna from the Earth, which under Eru they had made. Therefore Yavanna set times for the flowering and the ripening of all things mat grew in Valinor; and at each first gathering of fruits Manw made a high feast for the praising of Eru, when all the peoples of Valinor poured forth their joy in music and song upon Taniquetil. This now was the hour, and Manw decreed a feast more glorious than any that had been held since the coming of the Eldar to Aman. For though the escape of Melkor portended toils and sorrows to come, and indeed none could tell what further hurts would be done to Arda ere he could be subdued again, at this time Manw designed to heal the evil that had arisen among the Noldor; and all were bidden to come to his halls upon Taniquetil, there to put aside the griefs that lay between their princes, and forget utterly the lies of their Enemy. There came the Vanyar, and there came the Noldor of Tirion, and the Maiar were gathered together, and the Valar were arrayed in their beauty and majesty; and they sang before Manw and Varda in their lofty halls, or danced upon the green slopes of the Mountain that looked west towards the Trees. In that day the streets of Valmar were empty, and the stairs of Tirion were silent; and all the land lay sleeping in peace. Only the Teleri beyond the mountains still sang upon the shores of the sea; for they recked little of seasons or times, and gave no thought to the cares of the Rulers of Arda, or the shadow that had fallen on Valinor, for it had not touched them, as yet. One thing only marred the design of Manw. Fanor came indeed, for him alone Manw had commanded to come; but Finw came not, nor any others of the Noldor of Formenos. For said Finw: 'While the ban lasts upon Fanor my son, that he may not go to Tirion, I hold myself unkinged, and I will not meet my people.' And Fanor came not in raiment of festival, and he wore no ornament, neither silver nor gold nor any gem; and he denied the sight of the Silmarils to the Valar and the Eldar, and left them locked in Formenos in their chamber of iron. Nevertheless he met Fingolfin before the throne of Manw, and was reconciled,


and if you be a Nantucketer, and a whaleman, you will silently worship there. .. <p 455 > .. < chapter cv 24 DOES THE WHALE'S MAGNITUDE DIMINISH? WILL HE PERISH? > Inasmuch, then, as this Leviathan comes floundering down upon us from the head-waters of the Eternities, it may be fitly inquired, whether, in the long course of his generations, he has not degenerated from the original bulk of his sires. But upon investigation we find, that not only are the whales of the present day superior in magnitude to those whose fossil remains are found in the Tertiary system (embracing a distinct geological period prior to man), but of the whales found in that .. <p 456 > Tertiary system, those belonging to its latter formations exceed in size those of its earlier ones. Of all the pre-adamite whales yet exhumed, by far the largest is the Alabama one mentioned in the last chapter, and that was less than seventy feet in length in the skeleton. Whereas, we have already seen, that the tape-measure gives seventy-two feet for the skeleton of a large sized modern whale. And I have heard, on whalemen's authority, that Sperm Whales have been captured near a hundred feet long at the time of capture. But may it not be, that while the whales of the present hour are an advance in magnitude upon those of all previous geological periods; may it not be, that since Adam's time they have degenerated? Assuredly, we must conclude so, if we are to credit the accounts of such gentlemen as Pliny, and the ancient naturalists generally. For Pliny tells us of whales that embraced acres of living bulk, and Aldrovandus of others which measured eight hundred feet in length --Rope Walks and Thames Tunnels of Whales! And even in the days of Banks and Solander, Cooke's naturalists, we find a Danish member of the Academy of Sciences setting down certain Iceland Whales (reydan-siskur, or Wrinkled Bellies) at one hundred and twenty yards; that is, three hundred and sixty feet. And Lacepede, the French naturalist, in his elaborate history of whales, in the very beginning of his work (page 3), sets down the Right Whale at one hundred metres, three hundred and twenty-eight feet. And this work was published so late as A. D. . But will any whaleman believe these stories? No. The whale of to-day is as big as his ancestors in Pliny's time. And if ever I go where Pliny is, I, a whaleman (more than he was), will make bold to tell him so. Because I cannot understand how it is, that while the Egyptian mummies that were buried thousands of years before even Pliny was born, do not measure so much in their coffins as a modern Kentuckian in his socks; and while the cattle and other animals sculptured on the oldest Egyptian and Nineveh tablets, by the relative proportions in which they are drawn, just as plainly prove that the high-bred, stall-fed, prize cattle of Smithfield, not only equal, but far exceed in magnitude


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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Part 1 Out of the Night That Covers Me

Part 2 Bloody, but Unbowed

Part 3 Captain of My Soul

Epilogue

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

—WILLIAM FAULKNER

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\ A } E AGREED TO MEET a few hours after the funeral. In the Frogmore

gardens, by the old Gothic ruin. I got there first.

I looked around, saw no one.

I checked my phone. No texts, no voicemails.

They must be running late, I thought, leaning against the stone wall.

I put away my phone and told myself: Stay calm.

The weather was quintessentially April. Not quite winter, not yet

spring. The trees were bare, but the air was soft. The sky was gray, but

the tulips were popping. The light was pale, but the indigo lake,

threading through the gardens, glowed.

How beautiful it all is, I thought. And also how sad.

Once upon a time, this was going to be my forever home. Instead it

had proved to be just another brief stop.

When my wife and I fled this place, in fear for our sanity and physical

safety, I wasn’t sure when I’d ever come back. That was January 2020.

Now, fifteen months later, here I was, days after waking to thirty-two

missed calls and then one


Ezra Green is engineering anything,” Karl said. “He’s passive. Everyone’s just doing their job except for Mr. Ortman, who invents his own rules. At best, they’re completely clueless like Mr. Green. At worst, they’re fleecing people while hiding behind corporate bureaucracy. A bunch of Eichmanns with stock options.” I snorted and poured myself another shot, nearly missing the glass. “Don’t you think that’s kind of a harsh comparison, Mr. Rothenberg?” “Any other questions?” Karl asked, his voice shaking. I told Brianna I’d seen enough and she switched off the TV. I felt bad for Karl. I felt bad for myself. There were thousands of places I would rather have been than sitting in my office with Brianna, blinking through my tunnel vision as distant purrs of thunder accompanied the occasional flash of lightning outside. “It feels like everything’s falling apart,” Brianna said. “Nothing’s falling apart. You’d be the first to know if everything was falling apart.” “I think I’d be the last to know.” I fixed her in my gaze. It was a little frightening to be almost drunk on top of being almost blind. “Do you want three hundred million dollars?” “What?” “As a bonus.” “Ez, what are you talking about? Where would that money come from?” I shrugged and poured another shot. “You’ve been loyal,” I said. “You’ve kept all my secrets.” “I have no idea where the money would come from, though.” “Does it matter? It’d come from somewhere.” She screwed up her face. It seemed like she really wanted to know where the money would come from. “It’d come from a shell Elaine and I created to hold some assets off the books. We’d dissolve it and give you the money.” “I couldn’t take that.” “Well, it’s yours if you ever decide you want it.” She said something in response but I didn’t hear it: pain clanged behind my eyes and my vision began to stutter. I cast my gaze around the room as if looking at the sofa or the extra chairs or the art on the walls was going to keep what was happening from happening, but of course it wasn’t. There was what felt like an electrical surge—everything got very bright, radiant almost—and then everything went black. “Fuck,” I mumbled, as if we’d just lost power. I could hear her sitting forward, could hear the motherly tone in her voice again. “What is it?” I shook my head. “Ez?” I considered trying to pour more of the Pappy Old Rip Van Winkle to prove that I could still see, but it was useless. “The glaucoma,” I said. “Oh my god.” She sounded like she was the one going blind. “What’s it doing?” I waved my hand in front of my face like she had years ago. “It’s totally gone.” It was surprisingly easy to tell her. “You need to go back to Mengetsu. Tell her what’s going on.” “It’s too late for that.” “It’s not too late. You remember what the doctor told you in Urmau? Are you still taking the pills?” “Yes,” I lied.


"I've tried to be like a mother to you. I've loved you as if you were my own son." She was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in her old-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be beastly." He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet, withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. She had never surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion. "I know I've not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I didn't know how. It's been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for you to have no mother." Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. Then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train that would get him back to Tercanbury in time for call-over. As he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. He was angry with himself for his weakness. It was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and the tears of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. Mr. Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He showed it to Philip. It ran: Dear Mr. Perkins, Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his Aunt and I have been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to leave school, and his Aunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents. He does not seem to think he is doing very well and he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much obliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same mind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originally intended. Yours very truly, William Carey. Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in his triumph. He had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His will had gained a victory over the wills of others. "It's not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if he changes his mind the next letter he gets from you," said the headmaster irritably. Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could not prevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed it and broke into a little laugh. "You've rather scored, haven't you?" he said. Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his exultation.


public uproar over Silas' robbery, Godfrey investigates his own robbery privately. Eliot switches from ironic commentary to direct dramatization now, recording Godfrey's restless thoughts as he rides along. When Godfrey meets Dunstan's friend Bryce, Bryce tells him what happened the other day at the hunt. Bryce is surprised to hear that Dunstan hasn't come home, but he doesn't seem concerned. (Compare this to how seriously the Raveloe villagers take Silas' mishap.) Godfrey isn't as cool and controlled as Bryce, though he tries to be. Because you're inside his thoughts, you can feel his sense of impending doom. NOTE: LUCK Bryce tells Godfrey that Dunstan is a "lucky" fellow--meaning, ironically, that Dunsey's unlucky because he killed Wildfire. Yet Godfrey sees Dunstan as lucky, because he walked away unhurt from the accident. He sees himself as the victim of Dunstan's good luck. ("He'll never be hurt--he's made to hurt other people.") Godfrey doesn't feel lucky because he's haunted by his inner fears. Riding home, Godfrey sorts out his position. He feels he has to tell his father about Dunstan's losing the money. How strong is Godfrey's moral sense? His main reason for confessing is that he's sure he'll be found out. He won't, however, take the blame for squandering the rent money himself. He feels, too, that he should confess everything, including his marriage. But he has practical reasons for this: Molly herself might show up at the Red House soon. Eliot now gives you Godfrey's view of his father--and it isn't pleasant. The Squire seems hard, like a rock, yet he's a lazy landlord and a lazy father. Godfrey focuses on aspects of the Squire's personality that he resents and fears, making it harder than ever to make up his mind. Have you ever gone back and forth like this over a question? If so, you'll know that you never stop until you're finally forced into action. Godfrey goes to sleep with good intentions, but he sees things differently the next morning. His old habits of cowardly thought return to sap his resolve. Eliot's spent a lot of time showing you what Godfrey is thinking of doing, or planning to do. But the real test is what a man actually does. What do you think Godfrey will say to his father? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 9 Breakfast rituals at the Red House say a lot about the Cass family. The family doesn't eat together. There is no hunger here--the table is spread with food--the Squire even has to take a morning walk to work up an appetite. When he does sit down, he feeds meat to his dog--enough for a poor man's Sunday dinner--before he bothers to eat anything himself. He drinks ale for breakfast, too, which villagers only do on holidays. Eliot's description of the Squire is mostly negative, but he does carry himself with dignity. She claims this comes from having gone through life believing he was better than the people around him. Eliot believed that human characters are formed by their environments. Watch how other characters' physical bearing expresses how


"the land of the brave." Umuofia obodo dike! Umuofia obodo dike! It said this over and over again, and as it dwelt on it, anxiety mounted in every heart that heaved on a bamboo bed that night. Then it went nearer and named the village: "Iguedo of the yellow grinding-stone!" It was Okonkwo's village. Again and again Iguedo was called and men waited breathlessly in all the nine villages. At last the man was named and people sighed "E-u-u, Ezeudu is dead." A cold shiver ran down Okonkwo's back as he remembered the last time the old man had visited him. "That boy calls you father," he had said. "Bear no hand in his death." Ezeudu was a great man, and so all the clan was at his funeral. The ancient drums of death beat, guns and cannon were fired, and men dashed about in frenzy, cutting down every tree or animal they saw, jumping over walls and dancing on the roof. It was a warrior's funeral, and from morning till night warriors came and went in their age groups. They all wore smoked raffia skirts and their bodies were painted with chalk and charcoal. Now and again an ancestral spirit or egwugwu appeared from the underworld, speaking in a tremulous, unearthly voice and completely covered in raffia. Some of them were very violent, and there had been a mad rush for shelter earlier in the day when one appeared with a sharp machete and was only prevented from doing serious harm by two men who restrained him with the help of a strong rope tied round his waist. Sometimes he turned round and chased after those men, and they ran for their lives. But they always returned to the long rope he trailed behind. He sang, in a terrifying voice, that Ekwensu, or Evil Spirit, had entered his eye. But the most dreaded of all was yet to come. He was always alone and was shaped like a coffin. A sickly odour hung in the air wherever he went, and flies went with him. Even the greatest medicine men took shelter when he was near. Many years ago another egwugwu had dared to stand his ground before him and had been transfixed to the spot for two days. This one had only one hand and it carried a basket full of water. But some of the egwugwu were quite harmless. One of them was so old and infirm that he leaned heavily on a stick. He walked unsteadily to the place where the corpse was laid, gazed at it a while and went away again--to the underworld. The land of the living was not far removed from the domain of the ancestors. There was coming and going between them, especially at festivals and also when an old man died, because an old man was very close to the ancestors. A man's life from birth to death was a series of transition rites which brought him nearer and nearer to his ancestors. Ezeudu had been the oldest man in his village, and


her. That she was emotionally, if not physically, involved with him. He’d assured me that they weren’t intimate, but then how else had he cast such a spell on her? He and I rarely had sex anymore. There was no time. We were under so much stress. I told myself it was normal, but was it? Jesse was a passionate, sexual man. Was he having those needs met elsewhere? I shook off my petty jealousies. They would only get in the way. My focus had to be on Lee, on wheedling my way back into her good graces. No woman could resist a spa day—especially a woman in her situation. I’d pay for her to be primped and pampered. I’d ask my stylist, Karl, to cut her hair, make it look like mine. And then I’d suggest she enter my house and fool the cameras. Would she do that for me? It would be terrifying for her. Lee knew my husband was violent. But if I offered her money and new identification, she might just go through with it. Benjamin kept his golf clubs in the closet in his study. There were no cameras in that room. That’s where Jesse would do it. Lee wouldn’t even go in there. She’d be spared the blood and gore. She wouldn’t even know my husband was dead, stabbed with her own knife, until the police came to arrest her. The thought made me double over, and I worried I might be sick. But I pulled it together, righted myself, pushed the noxious guilt away. I directed my memory to Jesse’s assurances that Lee would be okay, even cared for, that she would get the help she needed. And I set my mind on that bubble of hope. Of anticipation. Finally, I would be free. To be with Jesse. The man I loved. 33 THE NEXT MORNING, SHE WAS there, as Jesse had promised she would be. My feet crunched on the loose rocks as I approached the car and tapped gently on the window. She opened her eyes, and they were cold when she recognized me. But she climbed out of the car, slowly, in pain, like she always was in the morning. I begged her for forgiveness, literally begged. As I served her fresh-baked scones and coffee, I told her how I’d panicked when I saw her on the street. “Vanessa and Laurie are shallow and judgmental,” I said. “If I’d introduced you as my friend, word could have got back to Benjamin. He controls all my friendships. He wouldn’t let me see you.” I watched her soften. “Fear and desperation can make you do terrible things. I should know,” she said. “I betrayed my only sister. And she’ll never forgive me.” I listened, features composed in sympathy, as she told me how she’d photographed her sister’s fiancé, how she’d attempted to extort money out of him. It was a shitty thing to do, but it seemed so trivial compared to my plot against her. “You were under so much pressure,” I said gently.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

getting away from the library, he hadn't paid attention to where he was going. Perhaps because it was dark, he didn't recognize where he was at all. There was a suit of armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he must be five floors above there. "You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library Restricted Section." Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he was, Filch must know a shortcut, because his soft, greasy voice was getting nearer, and to his horror, it was Snape who replied, "The Restricted Section? Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them." Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape came around the corner ahead. They couldn't see him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor and if they came much nearer they'd knock right into him -- the cloak didn't stop him from being solid. He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood ajar to his left. It was his only hope. He squeezed through it, holding his breath, trying not to move it, and to his relief he managed to get inside the room without their noticing anything. They walked straight past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, listening to their footsteps dying away. That had been close, very close. It was a few seconds before he noticed anything about the room he had hidden in. It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket -- but propped against the wall facing him was something that didn't look as if it belonged there, something that looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it out of the way. It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch and Snape, Harry moved nearer to the mirror, wanting to look at himself but see no reflection again. He stepped in front of it. He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was pounding far more furiously than when the book had screamed -- for he had seen not only himself in the mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right behind him. But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he turned slowly back to the mirror. There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder -- but still, no one was there. Or were they all invisible, too? Was he in fact in a room full of invisible people and this mirror's trick was that it reflected them, invisible or not? He looked in the


name with a hint of longing, a dose of sadness, and a heap of reproach. The emotions of a betrayed but once-beloved daughter. At least, I hoped. I was never anyone’s daughter. My father vanished from the world with an arrow in his throat, and my grandparents hurled Niphran into Bakir Tower when she sought to follow him. “Waleed Rayan. The Justice of Ahr il Uboor.” Arin tapped a finger against his knee. “You mean to tell me you are Mervat Rayan, daughter of the third most powerful family in Jasad?” I had chosen Mervat Rayan for three reasons. First, we were the same age. Her parents visited Usr Jasad often, leaving me with the onerous task of entertaining the girl. Waleed Rayan was important enough to be widely hated, so Arin would understand the significance of recruiting Waleed’s daughter. Second, I had disliked her. She wouldn’t climb the date trees with me or chase my pet caracal through the gardens. Third, I knew for a fact Mervat Rayan and her family were dead. They had come to pay my grandparents a visit before we left for the Blood Summit, and Gedo Niyar invited them to remain in Usr Jasad until we returned. The moment the fortress broke, the Supreme’s soldiers had slaughtered every single person in Usr Jasad. “I prefer Sylvia,” I said. And perhaps I was on the wrong side of exhaustion. Perhaps my encounter with the Mufsid left a deeper mark than I thought. “I know what you think of me.” The scar cut in sharp relief against his skin. Arin’s eyes narrowed as I lifted my hand near his jaw. It was stupid, so tremendously stupid I knew I’d spend the rest of the night berating myself. I traced the air above his scar, my fingers a hairsbreadth from his face. He could not hide his scars behind a tunic or a gown. The ones on my back were a mark of shame. Not Arin’s. Whatever the cause, he wore this scar as he wore his gloves. Another barrier between him and the rest of the world. “You would rather die protecting your own than live a half-life of hiding. I am fundamentally revolting to you, not only because I am a Jasadi, but because you believe me a coward.” I took one of his gloved hands in mine, turning his palm up. A thrill of terror raced up my spine when he did not withdraw. It felt like a forbidden triumph, doing this. Reaching forward and touching an Heir whose reputation for unapproachability had grown to mythical proportions. The urge to agitate him—to draw a reaction from the most reserved man in all the Awaleen-damned kingdoms—was too powerful to resist. “Consider this, my liege: there are fates worse than death.” I drew an arrow from the edge of his glove to the tip of his longest finger. “When the treaty became the most important result of the Battle of Zinish, nobody wondered what remained of the Orbanian soldiers who had suffered the consequences of the Sultana’s magic.


Mr. Nugent? You look a little irregular.” Zoegar is actually on his feet before Doublewide waves a hand, like a giant puppeteer. Zoegar shoots me a look: just wait till I get you home. “An idiosyncratic reaction, I’m told, Mr. Sounder. Nothing to do with poor product. And, no, in fact. I acquired my T7 from a legitimate source, though I will confess there was an element of deception involved.” The hand pressed to the vast expanse of chest in deprecation. “A sad mistake.” “It’s not fixable?” “I am alive. Magnificent! Different, yes, but not less simply because I do not look like an oversized matinee idol. I see nothing that needs fixing, Mr. Sounder. I do have an inconsequential request of you, however.” “Well, let’s see if I can accommodate you. You’ll appreciate that my time is my main professional resource.” “Oh, straight to the nub, very good, very good. I admire that in you, sir. In my observation of your career, it is laudably unblemished by inappropriate sentiment in the commercial setting. Though I must say, I believe your resources are not so limited. You have a keen mind and considerable nerve. So, indeed: I wish to commission you.” “To do what?” “Nothing of great significance. Roddy Tebbit’s liver and other organs are now the legal property of the Travis clinic, as I think you know.” “Yes.” “I would like them to get there, without mishap.” “And you think you need me for that.” “Stefan Tonfamecasca will not want it to. I’m concerned that he might…exercise his gravity, even just send someone to take them. One of Mr. Zoegar’s many counterparts in his organisation. He might even go to court. But if, say, a man who functions as a damper on all things Titanic were to vouch for their destruction to Stefan while nonetheless delivering them to me…that would be an optimal outcome.” “That’s not the same thing. You said the Travis. Stealing’s another matter.” “It is the same thing, sir. The Travis and I…we are one, financially speaking. When all the shells are plucked away and the cockle is winkled from the rock. I can even prove it to you, though with that level of knowledge of my affairs would come certain constraints upon you. No, there’s no need for that, Mr. Sounder. You can just drop them discreetly at the front desk. The staff will accommodate you as to timing and matters of…tradecraft.” “You want me to lie to Stefan.” “I offer you the opportunity to defeat him, in this one, small way.” “Why would I want to do that?” “Oh, come now. Everyone who meets him longs to beat him in one way or another. Otherwise we must acknowledge we are outmatched, made secondary in our own world. If we do not defeat the Titan king, what is left to us but obsolescence?” “You think that’s going to persuade me?” “I’m interested to find out. Who are you, Cal Sounder? I told you one story, will you not tell me another? Who are you?” “I’m sure you


making any more foolish decisions. If your father could see you now . . . I can only imagine what Simon thinks of— But where is Simon?” All of them turned in the direction of the approaching storm, and the ache in Lucy’s chest returned. Wherever Simon was, she hoped he would return. At the very least, she hoped he was safe. Chapter Twenty-Seven “Lucy, you need to sit down a moment,” Nick said. Lucy couldn’t sit. If she sat, her mind arrived at terrible conclusions. As long as she was moving, and as long as she had a view out the window to the rain-soaked grounds, things were still uncertain. “Lucy.” This time, instead of just insisting, Nick took her by the hand and led her to the sofa, forcing her down onto the cushion. “You’re making me dizzy, pacing like that.” “We should go after him,” she said, craning her neck to look out the window again. “Nick, it’s been hours. What if he’s injured?” His hands wrapped around hers, and he waited until she looked at him before he said anything. “Simon Calloway is no fool. He would have sought out shelter before the storm hit with full force. There are plenty of tenant cottages in that direction, and he knows these lands better than anyone. He could probably ride them blindfolded and be perfectly safe.” Pressing a hand to her forehead, Lucy groaned. “You’re laying it on a bit thick,” she said, though she was grateful for the positivity. All she could think about was Simon being thrown from his horse after a clap of thunder and lying in a ditch somewhere, injured and frozen. “Oh, Nick, you should have seen his face when I told him. He was so hurt.” “He was confused.” “He hates me, just as I thought he would.” Nick huffed out a sigh, almost angry as he commanded her attention with a tug on her hands. “Lucy Hayes, you are impossible to hate.” He turned to the other side of the room, where Lady Calloway and Olivia had taken up sewing to pass the time; William had gone to bed an hour ago, too exhausted to continue the vigil with his family. “Lady C., I could use your assistance.” Lady Calloway offered a smile, though she was clearly just as worried about Simon as Lucy, because she couldn’t hold the gesture for long. “I understand why you did what you did,” she told Lucy. Lucy had explained everything to her and Olivia a few hours before, with the help of Nick. Now all of them knew about Mr. Granger, except for the threats he had made to the family. She’d still kept that part to herself, hoping she could find a way to make things right without adding more to their burdens. “Simon will come around,” Lady Calloway said. “I know he will.” “If he’s alive,” Lucy muttered under her breath. The storm had been raging for several hours now, and there had been no sign of Simon or his horse. If something


A moisture came into his eyes, and, as the whipping continued, he arose and walked irresolutely up and down. This was the first time Buck had failed, in itself a sufficient reason to drive Hal into a rage. He exchanged the whip for the customary club. Buck refused to move under the rain of heavier blows which now fell upon him. Like his mates, he barely able to get up, but, unlike them, he had made up his mind not to get up. He had a vague feeling of impending doom. This had been strong upon him when he pulled in to the bank, and it had not departed from him. What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to drive him. He refused to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so far gone was he, that the blows did not hurt much. And as they continued to fall upon him, the spark of life within flickered and went down. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. As though from a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of pain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away. And then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was inarticulate and more like the cry of an animal, John Thornton sprang upon the man who wielded the club. Hal was hurled backward, as though struck by a failing tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his stiffness. John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to speak. "If you strike that dog again, I'll kill you," he at last managed to say in a choking voice. "It's my dog," Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came back. "Get out of my way, or I'll fix you. I'm going to Dawson." Thornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of getting out of the way. Hal drew his long hunting-knife. Mercedes screamed. cried, laughed, and manifested the chaotic abandonment of hysteria. Thornton rapped Hal's knuckles with the axe-handle, knocking the knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as he tried to pick it up. Then he stooped, picked it up himself, and with two strokes cut Buck's traces. Hal had no fight left in him. Besides, his hands were full with his sister, or his arms, rather; while Buck was too near dead to be of further use in hauling the sled. A few minutes later they pulled out from the bank and down the river. Buck heard them go and raised his head to see, Pike was leading, Sol-leks was at the wheel, and between were Joe and Teek.


takin’ uh awful chance.” “No mo’ than Ah took befo’ and no mo’ than anybody else takes when dey gits married. It always changes folks, and sometimes it brings out dirt and meanness dat even de per- son didn’t know they had in ’em theyselves. You know dat. Maybe Tea Cake might turn out lak dat. Maybe not. Anyhow Ah’m ready and willin’ tuh try ’im.” “Well, when you aim tuh step off?” “Dat we don’t know. De store is got tuh be sold and then we’se goin’ off somewhere tuh git married.” “How come you sellin’ out de store?” “’Cause Tea Cake ain’t no Jody Starks, and if he tried tuh be, it would be uh complete flommuck. But de minute Ah mar- ries ’im everybody is gointuh be makin’ comparisons. So us is goin’ off somewhere and start all over in Tea Cake’s way. Dis ain’t no business proposition, and no race after property and titles. Dis is uh love game. Ah done lived Grandma’s way, now Ah means tuh live mine.” “What you mean by dat, Janie?” “She was borned in slavery time when folks, dat is black folks, didn’t sit down anytime dey felt lak it. So sittin’ on Their Eyes Were Watching God 135 porches lak de white madam looked lak uh mighty fine thing tuh her. Dat’s whut she wanted for me—don’t keer whut it cost. Git up on uh high chair and sit dere. She didn’t have time tuh think whut tuh do after you got up on de stool uh do nothin’. De object wuz tuh git dere. So Ah got up on de high stool lak she told me, but Pheoby, Ah done nearly lan- guished tuh death up dere. Ah felt like de world wuz cryin’ extry and Ah ain’t read de common news yet.” “Maybe so, Janie. Still and all Ah’d love tuh experience it for just one year. It look lak heben tuh me from where Ah’m at.” “Ah reckon so.” “But anyhow, Janie, you be keerful ’bout dis sellin’ out and goin’ off wid strange men. Look whut happened tuh Annie Tyler. Took whut little she had and went off tuh Tampa wid dat boy dey call Who Flung. It’s somethin’ tuh think about.” “It sho is. Still Ah ain’t Mis’ Tyler and Tea Cake ain’t no Who Flung, and he ain’t no stranger tuh me. We’se just as good as married already. But Ah ain’t puttin’ it in de street. Ah’m tellin’ you.” “Ah jus lak uh chicken. Chicken drink water, but he don’t pee-pee.” “Oh, Ah know you don’t talk. We ain’t shame faced. We jus’ ain’t ready tuh make no big kerflommuck as yet.” “You doin’ right not tuh talk it, but Janie, you’se takin’ uh mighty big chance.” “’Tain’t so big uh chance as it seem lak, Pheoby. Ah’m older than Tea Cake, yes. But he done showed me where it’s 136 Zora Neale Hurston de thought dat makes de difference in ages. If people thinks de same they can make it all right. So


that would confirm his father had gained access to the house. Nearly four decades later, having long shed his fears of the walking dead, Michael is nonetheless wary of the phantoms presented by this rainy night, because one of them might prove to have substance and a gun. When he reaches the end of the long building, he looks north, past the back gable wall of Whole Fruit, then south along the back of Specialty Products. To the west, the interminable procession of dead trees continues. That sight increasingly depresses him with its endorsement of the theory that there are people who create and build and people who can only destroy, and that the latter are winning because their task requires less thought and labor. Aleem most likely didn’t turn right and enter Whole Fruit, in front of which his dead companions lie. He doesn’t know for sure that Nina and John are hidden in there or where to find them. He’ll want to put distance between himself and the site of the shooting, find a refuge from which to assess the situation. He believes that he’s gone from seven homeys as backup to just three, when in fact it’s one. In either case, he’s possessed of a gang mind, deciding tactics according to the strength of his numbers; he isn’t his best in one-on-one encounters. He’ll be rattled by this change in circumstances and by his inability to identify who has come to the aid of Nina and the boy. Not least of all, this environment is alien to him; his world is the city and its suburbs, and the only thing this orchard has in common with his usual territory is its decayed and decaying condition. He’s accustomed to going into conflict with boldness and swagger, but here the hunt requires stealth and patience, a prospect that will surely unnerve him. Because he has always seen himself as being above others, he’ll feel more confident if he literally takes the high ground, a vantage point from which he can look down—and shoot down—into the common area onto which all these buildings face, with a bird’s view of the main pathways along which someone might appear in cautious search of him. As the wind rises again, Michael moves south toward the back of Specialty Products. Along the eastern flank of the muddy common area, from north to south, stand Cider and Juice, Special Accounts, and the single-story building that served as an enormous garage for trucks and orchard machinery. Cider and Juice faces the building labeled OFFICES. The garage stands opposite Specialty Products. In the middle, Special Accounts is opposite Whole Fruit, where four dead men are sprawled in their voluminous black raincoats, which the wind billows like the membranous wings of prehistoric airborne reptiles that have fallen through time and the sky. The crisp white beams of two dropped flashlights intersect in a Greek cross of equal arms, as though in an ironic memorialization of the deceased. From a glassless window at the end of the hallway on the second


now spoiling our harpooneer, .. <p 90 > cried Peleg. Pious harpooneers never make good voyagers --it takes the shark out of 'em; no harpooneer is worth a straw who aint pretty sharkish. There was young Nat Swaine, once the bravest boat-header out of all Nantucket and the Vineyard; he joined the meeting, and never came to good. He got so frightened about his plaguy soul, that he shrinked and sheered away from whales, for fear of after-claps in case he got stove and went to Davy Jones. Peleg! Peleg! said Bildad, lifting his eyes and hands, thou thyself, as I myself, hast seen many a perilous time; thou knowest, Peleg, what it is to have the fear of death; how, then, can'st thou prate in this ungodly guise. Thou beliest thine own heart, Peleg. Tell me, when this same Pequod here had her three masts overboard in that typhoon on Japan, that same voyage when thou went mate with Captain Ahab, did'st thou not think of Death and the Judgment then? Hear him, hear him now, cried Peleg, marching across the cabin, and thrusting his hands far down into his pockets, -- hear him, all of ye. Think of that! When every moment we thought the ship would sink! Death and the judgment then? What? With all three masts making such an everlasting thundering against the side; and every sea breaking over us, fore and aft. Think of Death and the Judgment then? No! no time to think about Death then. Life was what Captain Ahab and I was thinking of; and how to save all hands --how to rig jury-masts -- how to get into the nearest port; that was what I was thinking of. Bildad said no more, but buttoning up his coat, stalked on deck, where we followed him. There he stood, very quietly overlooking some sail-makers who were mending a top-sail in the waist. Now and then he stooped to pick up a patch, or save an end of tarred twine, which otherwise might have been wasted. .. <p 91 > .. < chapter xix 2 THE PROPHET > Shipmates, have ye shipped in that ship? Queequeg and I had just left the Pequod, and were sauntering away from the water, for the moment each occupied with his own thoughts, when the above words were put to us by a stranger, who, pausing before us, levelled his massive forefinger at the vessel in question. He was but shabbily apparelled in faded jacket and patched trowsers; a rag of a black handkerchief investing his neck. A confluent small-pox had in all directions flowed over his face, and left it like the complicated ribbed bed of a torrent, when the rushing waters have been dried up. Have ye shipped in her? he repeated. You mean the ship Pequod, I suppose, said I, trying to gain a little more time for an uninterrupted look at him. Aye, the Pequod --that ship there, he said, drawing back his whole arm, and then rapidly shoving it straight out from him, with the


and kept the crowd back by beating the ground in front of them or, if they were stubborn, their legs and feet. At last the two teams danced into the circle and the crowd roared and clapped. The drums rose to a frenzy. The people surged forward. The young men who kept order flew around, waving their palm fronds. Old men nodded to the beat of the drums and remembered the days when they wrestled to its intoxicating rhythm. The contest began with boys of fifteen or sixteen. There were only three such boys in each team. They were not the real wrestlers,-they merely set the scene. Within a short time the first two bouts were over. But the third created a big sensation even among the elders who did not usually show their excitement so openly. It was as quick as the other two, perhaps even quicker. But very few people had ever seen that kind of wrestling before. As soon as the two boys closed in, one of them did something which no one could describe because it had been as quick as a flash. And the other boy was flat on his back. The crowd roared and clapped and for a while drowned the frenzied drums. Okonkwo sprang to his feet and quickly sat down again. Three young men from the victorious boy's team ran forward, carried him shoulder high and danced through the cheering crowd. Everybody soon knew who the boy was. His name was Maduka, the son of Obierika. The drummers stopped for a brief rest before the real matches. Their bodies shone with sweat, and they took up fans and began to fan themselves. They also drank water from small pots and ate kola nuts. They became ordinary human beings again, talking and laughing among themselves and with others who stood near them. The air, which had been stretched taut with excitement, relaxed again. It was as if water had been poured on the tightened skin of a drum. Many people looked around, perhaps for the first time, and saw those who stood or sat next to them. "I did not know it was you," Ekwefi said to the woman who had stood shoulder to shoulder with her since the beginning of the matches. "I do not blame you," said the woman. "I have never seen such a large crowd of people. Is it true that Okonkwo nearly killed you with his gun?" "It is true indeed, my dear friend. I cannot yet find a mouth with which to tell the story." "Your chi is very much awake, my friend. And how is my daughter, Ezinma?" "She has been very well for some time now. Perhaps she has come to stay." "I think she has. How old is she now?" "She is about ten years old." "I think she will stay. They usually stay if they do not die before the age of six." "I pray she stays," said Ekwefi with a heavy sigh. The woman with whom she talked was called Chielo. She was the


of him? Forgiveness for the money I owed? Understanding at least? Damon was a gangster. Violence was his currency. But still, I was shocked by the cruelty, the ruthlessness. He promised to break a finger a week until I paid. I’d lose my ability to cook. There was no choice but to run. I kept moving, from city to town, ensuring that I never stayed in one place for too long. Damon had other avenues of income, other businesses that would be making their payments on time. He didn’t need my money badly enough to send his thugs chasing me across the country. But still… I pushed onward, until I reached Seattle. The Pacific. The end of the line. One of the farthest geographical points from New York in the country. With my elbow, I pump the lemon-scented soap into my hand, wash my body, and use it as shampoo. The harsh detergent will dry my skin, make my hair stiff and frizzy, but all my toiletries were in my backpack. I try to wash away the fear, the loss, the utter sense of desolation that threatens to overwhelm me. Because I have no choice but to keep trying, keep moving forward, keep existing. Stepping from the shower, I dig a towel from my bag. It smells musty, but I pat at the droplets on my skin, hoping the scent won’t cling to me. Clean laundry has become a luxury I can afford only once a week. A woman with a toddler on her hip enters and gives me a side-eyed glance. I see her brow furrow as she spots the angry red scratches on my arm, clocks my pile of belongings, puts the pieces together. I need to hurry. I used to wear makeup—just a little concealer and mascara, a pop of color on my lips and cheeks, but it’s all gone now, taken with my purse. I finger-comb my tangle of dark hair, the highlights grown down to my chin, pressing it into some semblance of a style. It’s not really working, but at least I’m clean and presentable if not attractive. I’ve let that go. In some worlds, you trade on good looks; in others, you hide them. Eventually, they abandon you anyway. Just a lot quicker when you’re homeless. Hurriedly, I slip on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, my work “uniform.” Thankfully, the diner’s dress code is extremely casual. The protective mother is still watching me as she steps out of her clothes, eyes alert and wary. Does she think I’m crazy? Dangerous? That I might steal from her? I’m not interested in your bag of diapers and animal crackers, I want to snap, but I don’t. I drop the moist towel onto one of my canvas bags and hurry past two more moms and babies coming in for swim class. The crisp air outside the pool hits me like a slap, sharpens my senses. I’m beginning to feel weak and light-headed. I need food and caffeine. There is a coffee shop a few blocks


the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow. When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complete and wonderful as man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this determination and having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began. No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption. These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as


hang out with the Obamas. But other times, I felt like, behind the scenes, there was this emptiness. At night, when I was going to bed, I was more relaxed when I was by myself, whether I wasn’t dating anyone or was dating someone but they weren’t there that night. I wanted to find a real partner, but I couldn’t picture who the partner would be.” He paused. My ear was over his heart, and I could hear its steady beat. “When I’m with you,” he continued, “the best, most interesting part of my life is behind the scenes. I felt this emailing you, and I even felt it in your TNO office when you were helping with my sketch. Like, no one in the world knows what we’re up to except us and it’s awesome. It’s not for social media, it’s not for a documentary about the making of an album, it’s not an anecdote to tell on a talk show. It’s just because we think it’s fun and we like each other and we like being together.” Listening to him, it had occurred to me to say, “I’m honored that you find me more interesting than the Obamas,” but what came out of my mouth instead was “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire life.” I raised my head to look at him. “And I don’t think it’s self-centered.” “Oh, good.” He grinned. “Just so you know,” I said, “you weren’t wrong about me being private and hating to have my picture taken, or at least by a random dude jumping out of the bushes.” “I did know,” he said. “Because you threatened to stay at a hotel when I mentioned there might be paparazzi at that shopping center when you were arriving. If I’m not mistaken, you also once told me you were a goblin who’d never appeared onstage at TNO.” “Oh, right.” I brought my hand up to my face in embarrassment. “I mean, there wasn’t a second when I actually wanted to stay at a hotel. I always wanted to stay with you. I just got anxious.” “I like that you’re private. You realize that there are women who dated me in order to get their picture in magazines, don’t you?” This was an aspect of the situation I hadn’t considered. “I bet that was more of a fringe benefit than the main reason,” I said. “I’m sure you being charming and adorable was the main reason.” Dryly, he said, “You might be surprised.” “I may have a flaw or two, but I solemnly swear that I’ll never use you to try to advance my modeling career. Or to get my cannabis-infused-jams-and-jellies small business off the ground.” He laughed. “That reminds me there are two jokes I’ve thought about making when we’re”—he patted my bare hip—“like this. Should I try them out on you?” “You definitely should.” “The first one, the joke part isn’t the sentiment. It’s the callback.” I was smiling as I said, “Not to discourage you, but preemptively


sheltered, untested eighteen-year-old was far and away the most terrifying I’d ever known. It sits alongside my adoption as one of the most important crossroads in my life—the launching point for yet another attempted assimilation, although I didn’t think of it that way at the time. Remembering that my parents had also made the decision to leave everything and everyone they knew behind, simply because they longed for a different kind of life and believed they would find it together, helped give me the courage I needed. To this day it remains one of their legacies to me, a strand connecting the very different lives we have led, reminding me that I am their child. 3 Things my mother sent me after I left home Oregon postcards Calling cards Cash, when she had any to spare Vitamins Ballpoint pens and mechanical pencils Post-it notes Lip balm Sunscreen My favorite Girl Scout cookies Enough Werther’s Originals, Brach’s peppermints, and saltwater taffy for everyone in my dorm to help themselves from my free-for-all candy dish, plus seasonal candy for holidays A two-foot artificial Christmas tree, with decorations Warm socks Knit gloves Wool scarves (she was very concerned that I was too soft for East Coast winters) A manicure kit DVDs of my two favorite movies, Singin’ in the Rain and Casablanca Seashells and sand dollars Articles of potential interest snipped from the local newspaper A flashlight A safety whistle Pepper spray Photos of her and Dad and Grandma on every birthday and holiday I missed 4 “I’m glad that’s over.” Dan looked a little green as we made our way down the boarding stairs and across the tarmac to the airport entrance, backpacks slung over our shoulders. Our connecting flight from Portland had been bumpy, the plane cabin so small that we were unable to sit side by side; our seats were on opposite sides of an aisle so narrow the flight attendant couldn’t squeeze a cart through. I was accustomed to such flights after four years of coast-to-coast travel—sometimes it was only me, one or two other passengers, the pilot, and a single attendant on the final leg of the trip down from PDX or up from SFO—but my husband, who had grown up near Hartford, apparently had little experience with puddle jumpers. As usual on a day with no fog, I’d been able to spot the rooftops of my old neighborhood, if not my parents’ exact roof, from the window of the plane. The house was in the direct path of nearly every flight that landed at our tiny regional airport, and my father liked to tell people that a few low fliers had clipped branches off the tallest trees in our backyard. I don’t know if that was true—every third thing Dad said was intended as a joke, delivered so straight-faced that sometimes you couldn’t tell—but I was used to hearing the roar of flight after flight overhead, descending planes shaking the windows of my childhood bedroom. Growing up, I’d hardly ever invited anyone over to that house. My friends and


that we can live together.’ ‘That is the goal?’ ‘That’s the plan.’ ‘This is a test?’ ‘Everything is a test.’ ‘An act of trust?’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘A show of faith?’ ‘All of those things.’ ‘Did you worry that I might hurt you?’ ‘I didn’t, no. Others did. Others still do.’ Eitan considered for a moment. He looked up at the tunnels. No one was watching. ‘You didn’t tell anyone you were doing this?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘They would never have agreed.’ ‘They think I’m dangerous?’ ‘They think you could be.’ ‘What do you think?’ ‘I think you’re our future.’ ‘Your heart is beating very fast.’ ‘Yes, it is.’ ‘Are you nervous?’ ‘A little.’ ‘And what else?’ ‘I’m excited, too.’ ‘I want to pick you up.’ ‘Why?’ ‘To prove that I’m safe.’ ‘I’m not sure…’ ‘You are afraid?’ ‘Remember, compared to you, my skin is thin, and my bones are weak.’ ‘I am aware of your physical frailties.’ ‘If you hurt me, they’ll never release you.’ ‘I would never hurt you.’ ‘You might make a mistake.’ ‘I’ve never made a mistake.’ Yotam smiled at this remark. ‘Down here your opportunities for making mistakes have been limited.’ ‘What kind of mistake could I make by picking you up?’ ‘You might misjudge your strength.’ ‘I know my strengths as well as I know your weaknesses.’ With trepidation, Yotam nodded. ‘Okay. Go ahead. Pick me up.’ Eitan carefully lifted Yotam up. With his feet clean off the ground, he held him like this for a minute or so, exerting no effort. ‘You’re light.’ ‘Eighty-one kilos.’ ‘I could hold you like this forever.’ It sounded almost affectionate. ‘We don’t have forever.’ ‘Have I passed?’ ‘Passed what?’ ‘Today’s test.’ ‘In my opinion, yes.’ ‘There will be more tests?’ ‘Many.’ ‘And after the tests we will live together above the ice?’ ‘That’s the dream.’ ‘That’s my dream, too. Will it come true?’ ‘I hope so.’ ‘I hope so, too.’ ‘Eitan?’ ‘Yes, Yotam.’ ‘You can put me down now.’ MCMURDO CITY THE ARCHIVE NEXT DAY YOTAM HADN’T BEEN ABLE TO sleep, lying awake in bed, in the remains of an old sleeping bag stitched up and repaired so many times it looked like a fairy-tale quilt. He’d spent the entire night planning for today’s tests. If the first day had merely been an introduction, today would be something far more audacious and, in preparation, he decided to carry out some additional research before returning to the Final Stage Chambers. Getting out of bed early, one of the first to take breakfast, he enjoyed a fillet of poached Antarctic toothfish, one of the largest fish in the oceans, growing to almost two metres long and a voracious predator known to eat its own offspring. It had a taste comparable to cod. Washed down with a mug of hot kelp tea, excellent for boosting thyroid function, high in iodine, potassium and zinc, Yotam set off for the McMurdo City Archive. Circled by two walls of black granite rock, the Archive stood apart from the rest of the city, one of the last places


the game even starts. I overhear him say he’s scared of the dark, the woods, water, bugs, and basically all wildlife. How his friends convinced him to come up here is beyond me, but I feel bad, so I decide to let him be one of the survivors. He can get a T-shirt and earn some bragging rights. I go over the roles I’ve assigned to Paige and Bezi and double-check that everyone else knows what they need to do for the night. Then Bezi and I walk over to the Camp Mirror Lake control center. The security building is the nicest one at camp because it houses the only equipment worth anything in this entire place. There are speakers and cameras camouflaged throughout the camp, and whoever is on audio-visual duty for the night can cue up all kinds of effects: screams, footsteps, groans, even the sound of heavy breathing. The projectors that cast hulking shadows through the trees are some of the creepier effects. We use the cameras to keep tabs on all the guests and make sure they’re not veering too far off the beaten path. I don’t have time to chase drunken frat boys through the woods in the middle of a game. I open the padlock on the front door to the control room and pull it open. It’s hot inside, so I flip on the little box fan in the corner as Bezi stations herself at the control panel. “Here’s the schedule,” I say, handing her a binder that has all the timing for the special effects. “Staff watches are synced to that clock.” I gesture to a digital clock mounted above the series of monitors and keyboards. “Everything is labeled, and the mic is connected directly to the headsets we wear during the game. Just press the buttons next to our names to talk to us individually or press the big red button to talk to all of us at once. Think you can handle it?” She waves me away. “I got this. I get a front-row seat to all the scares without actually having to be involved? Yeah. Not a problem.” She stands up and throws her arms around my neck and kisses me. “Is there a camera in here?” A little grin spreads across her lips. “No,” I say. I run my hands up her back and breathe her in. She kisses me, and I let my fingers trail over her arms and up the sides of her neck. I’ve missed her. A lot. I’m at the camp for weeks during the summer with no breaks, but she understands. Bezi knows I’d rather be anywhere other than at home, where my mom and Rob are busy forgetting, or maybe regretting, that I exist. When I go home at the end of the season, Rob always acts surprised to see me. Like he’s hoping one day I just won’t come home at all. It wasn’t always like that, but now it’s all there is. Sometimes I wish the camp would run year-round just so