"I woke up in the back of an ambulance," she said. Her hand strayed unconsciously to the tiny scar on her cheek. "I was covered in blood. I had three broken ribs and a fractured collarbone, and also little cuts all over me. The EMTs kept asking me who they ought to call… and I couldn't give them an answer. There was my mother, back in Indiana, but what could she do from there? Calling her in the middle of the night would only have worried her, and it wouldn't have given me a hand to hold as the doctors stitched up my cuts and reset my bones. There was no one in my everyday life whom I knew well enough to ask. That was a heartbreaking moment.
"I knew then that I had become completely disconnected from myself and from everything that really mattered, and that no amount of money or success was going to comfort me when I found myself in an early grave. Things had to change. When I recovered, I went in search of my spiritual path. Along the way I found FireStorm, back in its earliest stages, and I'm proud to say that I helped the organization to develop into what it is today."
For a moment, the tent was silent as Sara's speech came to an end. Then Cody began to applaud heartily, and the rest of the group quickly followed his lead. "Thanks, Sara!" he cried over the tumult. "Thanks for sharing such an inspiring, cautionary story with us! I've heard it plenty of times before, of course, but every single time I'm amazed and blessed by the honesty and openness you give to us. Now — who's going to be brave enough to do what Sara has just done and tell us about their own disconnection?"
Chapter Twelve
Oh god, Sam thought, not me, not me, not me, don't pick me. He shrank back into the sandy floor, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head as subtly as he could. He had not been so unwilling to volunteer since his school days, standing at the side of a freezing cold playing field, hoping not to be asked to captain a team. I've got nothing to say about my "disconnections." I'm not sure I want to hear other people talk about theirs, but if it means I don't have to talk about mine, that'll do me just fine.
Much to his surprise, the first person to raise a hand was Julia Rose. He was accustomed to her looking nervous, but this was a kind of nerves he had never seen her display. Rather than looking as if she was expecting to be thrown out, this time she looked as jittery as someone meeting an idol. At Cody's prompting she got to her feet and told the group her name, then she spoke haltingly. "I, um… I don't have a long story or anything. I'd probably have to think for a little while to tell you about disconnection in my own life — I think I'm still just getting my head around the concept. But I just wanted to say, Ms. Stromer — that spoke to me. There's a lot about your story that I recognize, and… I really want to call my mom right now."
She sat down again hastily, her dark skin tinged with a deep blush, her eyes on the floor. Sara was only a little way from her, and she reached over to take Julia Rose's hand. That's twice now, Sam thought. I got the impression that Julia Rose's interest in Sara Stromer was more muckraking than hero-worshipping. Maybe I was wrong.
Others followed, sharing stories of their less proud moments. Some were common place — there were several who had realized that they seldom spoke to other people except online, or that they had forgotten their own birthdays until Facebook had reminded them. Others, such as Sara's, were a little more dramatic. Christopher Slack, a British MP still young enough to carry a layer of puppy fat that he had expected to shed after leaving Eton, told them of a long, dark night of the soul after his father had died. He had missed the funeral due to his heavy workload, then visited the grave a few days later, when he had a horrible moment of epiphany. It hit him that his father was gone and his opportunity to say goodbye had passed.
As affecting as some of the stories were, Sam found his concentration beginning to wane. There was a certain element of repetition to what he was hearing, and after a while the stories simply blurred into a mass of first-world misery. The more he heard, the more convinced he became that he had never experienced real "disconnection." Even when Trish had died, he had felt loss and loneliness and pain, but he had always known that if he had really wanted companionship, he had a couple of people who would provide it. He wasn't close to his sister, but he knew that she would never turn him away if he needed her, and there was always Paddy.
"Sam, how about you?"
Sam's whole body tensed at the sound of Cody's voice. The gaze of the room turned on him, expectant, demanding. He cleared his throat a couple of times, feeling foolish. What am I doing here again?
"Er… " Desperately he searched the recesses of his brain, searching for anything, any memory or experience that could be turned into a story that would satisfy the group. He had nothing. The closest match he had was Trish's death, and he would not twist that in order to fit in with this crowd. "I don't think I've… er, you know, when I stop and think about it, I don't think I've ever been through that — disconnection, I mean."
"What do you mean, Sam?" Cody's twangy voice was as perky as ever, but Sam thought he detected an edge of irritation. "It's really a universal experience. Don't you find that online communication and heavy workloads have taken over your life?"
Sam shook his head. "Not really. Sorry. I'm not trying to be awkward or anything — and I'm not saying my experience is typical. I'm just a bit old-fashioned, I suppose. I never really got into online communication. When I want to connect with people I tend to just go for a pint with them."
"Ah!" Cody seized on Sam's words. "But are you able to connect with them without using alcohol as a crutch?"
"I've never really tried," Sam shrugged. "It's just what we do."
"As a way of coping with how much you work?"
"Er… possibly? I don't know. For the most part I've always liked what I do, so I've never really worried too much about separating work and life."
Cody stared at Sam, torn between disbelief and a desire to start aggressively fixing him. He took a step toward him, but Sara raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks. She gave a slight shake of her head, and Cody backed down. "Well, Sam," he said, "I think those were some important realizations right there. Sometimes it takes a little while to get as far as being able to recognize your own disconnection. It's not easy. That's why this part is called friction. For some people, friction comes from working through their disconnections. For others, it's a process of learning to recognize them. Yours is going to take a little longer… " he gave Sam a grin so warm that it made him uncomfortable. "But we're here to work through it with you!"
"Sam. Sam. Sam."
At first Sam was not sure whether the sound was real or not. It reached into the edge of his dreams, pulling him out of sleep and into reality, where he found himself in pitch darkness. He waited, completely still, for the whisper to happen again.
"Sam! Are you awake?"
Nina. It was Nina's voice. They had all been asked to sleep in the tent that they had helped to build, leaving Sam to share with Nina, Purdue, Julia Rose, and Hunter, who had dragged his blanket as far from the others as possible within the contents of the cramped teepee.
"Well, I am now," Sam sighed, rolling onto his back. He tried to focus, but it was too dark.
"Do you want a cigarette?" She rattled the packet and Sam heard the comforting sound of sweet nicotine calling his name. He crawled out from under his blanket and followed Nina as they fumbled their way toward the tent flap and out onto the sand. A fat, waxing Moon cast an ethereal glow over the landscape, providing them with almost enough light to see where they were going. Nina had a light of some kind — Sam could not see what she was holding, but he could see the small pool of light cast in front of her. He walked carefully in her footsteps, eyes on the ground to avoid the treacherous roots and tumbleweed that might be hiding in the night.