Timothy doesn’t speak either when Meecham offers him leniency, although I want him to—I want him to confess here publicly, to recant everything, to break down and weep and beg, to ask Meecham for compassion, to give himself over to her mercy. He doesn’t speak, but he’s not stoic either, not like his father—his eyes well with tears and his face reflects anguish as he forces himself to keep from crying. Timothy wanted me to believe that he was working toward grace. Is this what grace looks like? All that pain—
Black hoods over their heads. Meecham signs each execution warrant with a silver pen.
I turn off the television, head to the barn and work at the press until dawn.
The last mention I hear of Albion, maybe the last mention I’ll ever hear, was on the BBC, a brief mention buried amid a flurry of other, more pressing news. A Canadian border patrol agent came forward to report he had spotted Darwyn Harris crossing from Washington State into Canada several days prior—that she had used a passport and ID under the name Albion Waverly and had been driving a Volkswagen Rabbit. “Her passport didn’t catch on the Do Not Cross list, so I let her through,” said the agent. “Our facial ID software was off-line for a few hours that afternoon, she must have known. I didn’t recognize her until later, when I was flipping through some paperwork.” Collaborating with Canadian authorities, the FBI determined that she had most likely purchased another car with cash just outside Vancouver. The segment about Albion ended and the BBC turned to continuing coverage of Nina Penrose, Page 3 girl and winner of last year’s Miss Universe pageant, and her upcoming appearance on the British version of Chance in Hell.
I wonder what name Albion’s using now—
I’ve contemplated new Adware, something simple, to retrace our steps through the City, to search for her—sometimes I imagine I’ll find her if I just spend enough time in places that were important to us, maybe in our booth at Kelly’s in East Liberty, or maybe if I ride her bus as it plunges into the tunnel just before the end of the world. She’s sure to haunt those places eventually—but I realize I’m a ghost to her now, a link to a past she wants to efface. I think of her as I take my walks around the fields. I remember her. I’ve never been to Canada, but I imagine Albion with new hair, new clothes, behind the wheel of a car bought used just outside Vancouver. I imagine her driving on interstates, heading farther and farther north, as far north as she can go. I imagine that the roads she travels are beautiful, studded with mountains and lush with evergreens. I imagine that as the roads thin and the forests darken she feels safe, finally safe. I imagine a single road cutting through all those miles and miles of forest, all that infinite forest, a single road that someone could drive for hours, for days, and never see another human face.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Although writing is a solitary act, a writer’s work is never accomplished alone.
Thank you to Stewart O’Nan, whose writing is an inspiration to me, and whose wisdom, friendship and encouragement came at an unexpected and crucial time in my life.
Thank you to Jonathan Auxier, whose critical insight helped my writing, and whose friendship enriches me.
Thank you to my close friends who read early versions of this story, whose commentary and enthusiasm were crucial to the development of this book: Angela Seals, David Seals, Nicole Capozzi, Joshua Hogan, Caroline Carlson, Brother Thomas Bondra.
Thank you to Matt McHenry and Guy Bialostocki, whose computer expertise helped bring a sense of realism to the Archive.
Thank you to Pittsburgh artist Seth Clark, whose finely constructed architectural collages served as an inspiration when I imagined the type of artwork Albion might create.
Thank you to David Gernert, Andy Kifer, Rebecca Gardner and everyone at the Gernert Company. Thank you to Sylvie Rabineau at RWSG Literary Agency.
Thank you to Meaghan Wagner, my editor. Thank you to Ivan Held and Susan Allison at Putnam. Thank you to John Wordsworth at Headline books. Thank you to the hardworking copyeditors and designers at Putnam who helped bring this book to life.
Thank you to everyone at the Carnegie Library for the Blind and Physically Handicapped, true friends and a second family, who I’ve shared my life with for twelve years.
Thank you to my mom and dad for everything, and to Howard and Marilyn, to Jenna and James and Karen, to Tal and Jenn and Pete, and to Eloise, Amelia and Pen.
And thank you to my wife, Sonja, and my daughter, Genevieve, whose love is everything to me.
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Fantastic Praise for Tomorrow and Tomorrow
Playboy’s Book of The Month
“Tomorrow and Tomorrow is a delicious dystopian mystery being described as Blade Runner meets Minority Report.”
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