Glenn stood alone in the still house, wondering where she would drift off to if all the anchors that held her down were gone.
18
That night, Glenn sat on a small bed in a room down the hall, shaking even though she was mostly dry. She lay under the bed’s handmade quilt. The thin mattress crinkled beneath her.
Glenn tried to imagine herself in her own bed, tried to call up the sounds of Dad working in his shack out behind the house, tried to tell herself that she would be back there soon, but it was no use. Everything was so far away.
“Hey.”
Glenn jumped, startled. A thin silhouette, framed in orange candlelight, stood in the doorway. Kevin.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, holding a plate out in his hands.
As he came in, Glenn sat up and pushed her back up against the wall.
“No,” Glenn said, hugging her knees. “Thanks.”
“You still cold?” Kevin asked. “I could ask Opal for another blanket.”
Glenn shook her head without looking at him. The bed rippled as Kevin sat down and put the plate between them. For a while he said nothing, just stared down at the bed in the same distracted way as earlier, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Thanks,” he said.
“For what?”
“Diving in after me,” he said, with a small unconvincing laugh. “I didn’t even know you knew how to swim.”
Kevin toyed with the bread on the plate, lifting a piece and letting it drop.
“We have to talk about it,” he said.
“About what?”
“Aamon,” Kevin said. “We heard what he said in those ruins, that it was his fault. We can’t ignore what Opal said. We don’t really know him.”
“I know him!”
“You know him at home,” Kevin said. “Not here.”
“And you don’t know Opal at all.”
“Glenn — ”
“What happened to you?”
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Glenn took a scrap of the bread off the plate and twisted it between her fingers. “What did it feel like?”
“A dream, kind of. You know? The ones that are so real you
wake up and wonder if they really happened. And then for the whole day, you walk around in this fog like … pieces of it are clinging to you and won’t let go.”
“But how did you know those things? About Cort?”
“Because for a little while, I was him.”
“Kevin — ”
“Don’t,” Kevin interrupted. “You don’t know everything, Glenn.
Not about this place, you don’t.” He looked down at the bracelet on her arm. “Not with that thing on anyway.”
Kevin reached out for it, but Glenn yanked her sleeve over her hand.
“You should take it off,” he said, his voice dry and flat. “With that thing on your wrist, you’re not really here. Think of it as an experiment.”
Kevin sat there a moment, waiting, then shook his head. He
swept the plate from between them and stood up at the edge of the bed.
“It’s a pretty amazing world out there, Morgan. I just thought you should see it.”
The door shut behind him with a dull clap.
A bit of moonlight came in through the window behind her,
filling the tiny room with a cold glow. Glenn lay listening as floorboards squeaked, voices murmured and then went quiet. The only other sounds were the moans and creaks of the settling house and the wind outside Glenn’s window. The shadows of the bare trees waved and shifted all around her.
Glenn turned over on her side, and saw that a wooden box sat on the floor beside the bed, a deeper shadow in the dark room. Glenn slipped off the bed and undid the catch. Inside, Glenn found a patchwork doll made of sewing scraps bound together with ragged stitches. Its hair was corkscrews of soft yarn. Glenn set it down and lifted out a handful of rocks and a wooden toy sled. At the very bottom sat a sword cobbled together out of sticks.
Glenn held the sword up into the moonlight. How did Kevin
know? Glenn laid all of Cort’s things out in front of her, side by side.
They were the bricks and mortar any kid would use to build a world up around himself. Things that were his and no one else’s.
Glenn put all of Cort’s things back in his chest and closed the lid.
She swept her fingers across her bracelet, wrapped her hand around it, feeling its warmth, its faint vibrations. She turned toward the door and listened. Nothing. Glenn eased the bracelet down until it crested the rise of her thumb. She paused, a buzzing hum in her chest, then drew her fingers together and slid the bracelet off.
It seemed an alien thing sitting there in the palm of her hand. The fine hairs along Glenn’s arm were damp with sweat, chilling her. She set the bracelet on top of Cort’s chest and waited.
The long fingers of trees, blown by the wind, still scraped against the side of the house and tapped the window. There was still the faint rushing of the water down by the shore. The world was still the world.
Glenn closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to quiet her expectations. As she did, she became very aware of the rise and fall of her breath, the thump of her heart, and the brittleness of her fire-dried hair. All around her was the empty stillness of the room, hemmed in by thin walls.
Glenn stood up, eyes still closed, and set her palm against the rough plaster wall. What was the difference, really, between it and her hand? Different molecules. A different arrangement.
It seems so trivial, Glenn thought. Funny, even. The faith we put in the difference between one thing and another.
Glenn breathed a long sigh, emptying herself of millions of bundles of oxygen and carbon dioxide. They crashed against the wall’s surface and rebounded, blowing back against her cheeks. Glenn pushed against the wall. There was a second’s hesitation and then a kind of slump, a give, as her flesh eased into the plaster like a body slipping into water. Glenn’s fingers found the border of the wood behind the plaster, slipped quietly through, and emerged on the other side of the wall to wave in the cool air outside.
Glenn stepped forward and the wall accommodated her; they
moved around each other like two bodies sleepily arranging themselves in bed. The plaster was smooth and cool. It smelled clean. The wood shell of the house beyond it was like sandpaper brushing past her skin.
When Glenn opened her eyes, she was standing outside in the narrow space between the house and the forest. She glanced over her shoulder. The wall was whole. Unmarked.
A chorus of insects called in the darkness, the in and out of the forest’s breath. The moon hung white in the sky, surrounded by the glitter of stars. Glenn flexed the muscles in her ankles, rising up onto the tips of her toes, and arched her neck back. Her lips parted. Her arms stretched upward.
Molecules of air, scented with pine, wrapped themselves around Glenn like a sheet of silk and drew her off the earth and into the sky.
PART THREE
19
Glenn found herself hundreds of feet in the air high above the treetops and shooting ever higher. Opal’s house was barely visible as an amber glow slipping away from her. Panic turned like a wheel inside Glenn, faster and faster as the earth retreated. She was in a nightmare.
It had to be a nightmare. Glenn flipped over and reached for the ground, but her fingers could only claw at the air.
At the same time, it was as if everything around her — the wind, the stars, the forest and all its animals — had a voice and they were all screaming at once. Glenn could feel the stalking heat of every animal in the woods folded into the stately calm of the trees and the cold turn of the river. It seemed like every rock, every tree, every gust of wind was a transmitter, beaming some part of its essence out into the air, where it swirled with all the others, forming a vast web. Glenn was trapped in the middle of it, unable to process the chaos that crashed into her from every side. Glenn buried her head in her arms, wishing the voices away, but they only blared louder. The air grew thin as she rose and the temperature plummeted. The ground … she had to get back to the ground. Glenn imagined herself reaching out to solid earth, and to her surprise, the eddies of force drawing her upward thickened and she slowed and slowed, and then she stopped.