“He blamed me,” Donald said, staring at the floor. “It was on my shift. I was such a mess. I couldn’t think straight.”
“What? No. Donny, no.” She rested a hand on his knee. “There’s no one to blame.”
“But my report—” He still had it in his hand, folded up and dotted here and there with pale blue.
Anna’s eyes fell to the piece of paper. “Is that a copy?” She sniffed and reached for it, brushed the loose strands of hair off her face. “Dad had the courage to tell you about this but not about what Vic did.” She shook her head. “Victor was strong in some ways, so weak in others.” She turned to Donald. “He was found at his desk, surrounded by notes, everything he had on this silo, and your report was on top.”
She unfolded the page and studied the words. “Just a copy,” she whispered.
“Maybe it was—” Donald began.
“He wrote notes all over his copy.” She slid her finger across the page. “Right about here, he wrote ‘This is why.’”
“This is why? As in why he did it?” Donald waved his hand at the room. “Shouldn’t this be why? Maybe he realized he’d made a mistake.” He held Anna’s arm. “Think about what we’ve done. What if we followed a crazy man down here? Maybe Victor had a sudden bout of sanity. What if he woke up for a second and saw what we’d done?”
“No.” Anna shook her head. “We had to do this.”
He slapped the wall behind the cot. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“Listen to me.” She placed a hand on his knee, tried to soothe him. “You need to keep it together, okay?” She glanced toward the door, a fearful look in her eyes. “I asked him to wake you because I need your help. I can’t do all of this alone. Vic was working on Silo 18. If it’s up to Dad, he’ll just terminate the place not to have to deal with it. Victor didn’t want that. I don’t want that.”
Donald thought of Silo 12, which he’d terminated. But it was already falling, wasn’t it? It was already too late. They had opened the airlock. He looked toward the schematic on the wall and wondered if it was too late for this silo as well. Maybe when they put him down again, maybe he would dream better dreams if this place could be saved. Maybe the pile of bones would have a summit this time.
“What did he see in my report?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But he wanted to see you weeks ago. He thought you touched on something.”
“Or maybe it was just because I was around at the time.”
Donald looked at the room of clues. Anna had been digging, tearing into a different problem. So many questions and answers. His mind was clear, not like last time. He had questions of his own. He wanted to find his sister, find out what happened to Helen, dispel this crazy thought that she was still out there somewhere. He wanted to know more about this damnable place he’d helped build.
“You’ll help us?” Anna asked. She rested her hand on his back. Her touch was comforting for a moment, and then he thought of Helen. He startled as if bit, some wild part of him thinking for a moment that he was still married, that she was alive out there, maybe frozen and waiting for him to wake her.
“I need—” He stood and glanced around the room. His eyes fell to the computer on the desk. “I need to look some things up.”
Anna rose beside him. She fumbled for his hand. “Of course. I can fill you in with what we know so far. Victor left a series of notes. He wrote all over your report. I can show you. And maybe you can convince Dad that he was onto something, that this silo is worth saving—”
“Yes,” Donald said. He would do it. But only so he could stay awake. That was his motivation. And he wondered for a moment if it was Anna’s as well. To keep him around.
An hour ago, all he had wanted was to go back to sleep, to escape the world he had helped create. But now he wanted answers. He would look into this silo with its problems, but he would find Helen as well. Find out what’d happened to her, where she was. He thought of Mick, and Tennessee flashed in his mind. He turned toward the wall schematic with all the silos, tried to remember which state went with which number.
“What can we access from here?” he asked. His skin flushed with heat as he thought of the answers at his disposal. Maybe this computer wouldn’t be locked down like his last one. No games of solitaire to subdue curious minds.
Anna turned toward the door. There were footsteps out there in the darkness.
“Dad. He’s the only one with access to this level anymore.”
“Anymore?” He turned back to Anna.
“Yeah. Where do you think Victor got the gun?” She lowered her voice. “I was in here when he came down and cracked open one of the crates. I never heard him. Look, my father blames himself for what happened, and he still doesn’t believe this has anything to do with you or your report. But I know Vic. He wasn’t crazy. If there’s anything you can do, please. For me.”
She squeezed his hand. Donald looked down, didn’t realize she’d been holding it. The folded report was in her other hand. The footsteps approached. Donald nodded his assent.
“Thank you,” she said. She dropped his hand, grabbed his empty cup from the cot, and nested hers with it. The cups and the bottle were tucked into one of the chairs, which slid against the table as Thurman arrived at the door and rapped the jamb with his knuckles.
“Come in,” Anna said, brushing loose hair off her face.
Thurman studied the two of them a moment. “Erskine is planning a small ceremony,” he said. “Just us. Those of us who know.”
Anna nodded. “Of course.”
Thurman narrowed his eyes and glanced from his daughter to Donald. Anna seemed to take it as a question.
“He thinks he can help,” she said. “We both think it’s best for him to work down here with me. At least until we make some progress.”
Donald turned to her in shock. Thurman said nothing.
“We’ll need another computer,” she added. “If you bring one down, I can set it up.”
That, Donald liked the sound of.
“And another cot, of course,” Anna added with a smile.
Silo 18
•10•
Mission slunk away after the fight with the farmers as the rest of the porters scattered. He stole a few hours of sleep at the upper waystation, his nose numb and lips throbbing from a blow he’d suffered. Tossing and turning, too restless to stay put, he rose in the dim-time and realized it was early yet to go to the Nest. The Crow would still be asleep. And so he headed to the cafeteria for a sunrise and a decent breakfast, the coroner’s bonus burning in his pockets the way his knuckles burned from their scrapes.
He nursed his aches with a welcomed hot meal, eating with those coming off a midnight shift, and watched the clouds boil and come to life across the hills. The towering husks in the distance—the Crow called them buildings—were the first to catch the rising sun. It was a sign that the world would wake one more day. His birthday, Mission realized. And he regretted coming up there. He left his dishes on the table, a chit for whoever cleaned after him, and tried not to think of cleaning at all. Instead, he rushed down the eight flights of stairs before the silo fully woke. He headed toward the Nest, feeling not a day older at all.