The Unbound

The thought of a full night of sleep, wrapped in nothing but his noise, makes my heart ache, but I force myself to shake my head. “They’re not going to let you stay a second time.”

“Who says they have to know?” he asks.

“Sneaking into a girl’s room?” I ask with mock surprise. “That sounds like something a boyfriend would do.”

Wesley’s smile tilts. “Just leave the window open.”

I make it back to the café with five minutes to spare, catching Mom’s eye on the way in. If I’m expecting a smile, a welcome back, or an apology, I’m disappointed. Mom’s efficient glance from clock to me to clock to work makes it clear: it’s going to take a lot more than an hour without broken promises to piece our family back together.

The first thing I do when I get back upstairs is slide my bedroom window open (if my parents ask, I can say something about needing fresh air, since this seems like the only way I’ll ever get any), but when I pause to look out and down, I realize there’s no way Wes is going to get inside tonight. I rest my elbows on the window and consider the drop until I hear a nervous squeak and turn to see Mom standing in the doorway, looking at me like she thinks I’ll jump.

“Nice night,” I say, pulling my head back in.

“Di

Dad has insisted on cooking, as if that will mend things. He even makes my favorite—spaghetti with meatballs from scratch—but we still spend most of the meal in a silence broken only by scraping knives and forks. Dad won’t look at Mom, and Mom won’t look at me. All I can think as we sit in silence is that if my life ended right now, there would be this trail of destruction, a wake of ruined trust, and it leaves me feeling empty. Did Da ever feel this way?

Antony Bishop was a flake, and a criminal, and a selfish asshole who cared more about his secrets and his many lives than his family.

Is that how Dad really saw his father? Is that what he was? What I am? Something that rends the family instead of gluing it together? Ben was our glue. Have we been weakening without him? Or have I been prying us apart?

Halfway through the meal, I feel the scratch of letters on my list again, and my heart sinks. I excuse myself and escape to my room, my father’s command to leave the door open trailing like a weight behind me.

The silence is worse when I’m alone, quickly filling up with hows and whys and what ifs. How is Agatha’s search going? Why is someone doing this? What if my theory is wrong? I switch the radio on and unfold the Archive paper. Another name.

Henry Mills. 14.

I slump down on my bed, tossing my good arm over my eyes. Even if I weren’t being watched like a hawk, it would be hard to keep up with names appearing at this rate. Keepers are encouraged to deal with them as quickly as possible, to keep the list from getting long and to keep the Histories from slipping into madness, since they’re harder to handle once they have. But they’re not expected to spend every waking moment standing near a Narrows door, waiting for the call. Then again, their jobs and their lives don’t hang in the balance. Someone else may be able to let the names sit. I can’t. Not with Agatha looking for any signs of weakness.

I sit up, considering the open window. Can Wes really get in? And if so, can I get out?

Eventually Mom and Dad go to bed with their door open, but I’m allowed to close mine, probably because they figure the only way I can get out is through the window, and nobody would be crazy enough to try that. Nobody except Wesley, apparently, who appears around midnight sitting like a specter in the window frame.

I look up from the bed as he slips into the room, offering a silent and dramatic bow before crossing to me.

“Color me impressed,” I whisper under the music on the radio. “Do I want to know how you did that?”

“I said I was a good climber,” he whispers. “Never said I had to climb up.” He points a finger at the ceiling. “4F is vacant.”

“Well,” I say, getting to my feet, “I’m really glad you made it.”

Wesley’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, tugging on my boots.

Wes’s brow knits. “Going somewhere?”

“I assume if you got in, you know how to get back out.”

“Well, yeah, in theory. But I kind of thought I wouldn’t have to test it till morning.”

“There’s another name on my list.”

“So?”

I go to the window and peer out and up, considering the rock walls of the Coronado. Not the easiest ascent, especially with one good arm. “I need to clear it.”

“Mac,” whispers Wes, joining me by the window. “I’m all for efficiency, but this is bordering on obsessive. It’s only one name. Leave it till tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” I say, swinging my leg out the window.

He catches my elbow to steady me, the beat of his life sliding through my shirt and under my skin. “Why not?”

I don’t want to lie, not to Wes, but I don’t want him to worry, either. I’m worried enough for the both of us, and there’s nothing he can do right now except show me how to climb out of this room. “Because it’s a test.” It’s not a lie. Agatha is testing me.

“What?” Wesley’s eyes darken.

“An evaluation,” I say. “After everything that’s happened, I guess they—Agatha—wants to make sure…” My eyes slide down to my sleeve, the bandages peeking out around the wrist.

“Sure of what?” snaps Wes, and I hear something new in his voice. Anger, directed at the Archive. “Jesus, after everything you’ve been through, everything you’re going through—”

I swing my leg back into the room and take Wesley by the shoulders, my eyes sliding past him to the door, worried someone will hear the commotion. “Hey,” I say, making sure to talk under the sound of the radio. “It’s okay. I don’t blame them. But I need to keep the list clear. And to do that, I need your help.”

“Is this why they locked me out of your territory?”

I nod, and he lets out a low oath before pulling himself together. “What they’re doing,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear it, “I’m sure it’s just protocol.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, but I can tell he wants to.

“I’m sure,” I say. I wish I could believe it, too.

He steps up to the window, gripping the sill. After a long breath, he says, “Are you sure you can climb?”

“I’ll manage,” I say stiffly.

“Mac—”

“I’ll manage, Wes. Just show me what to do.”

He sits on the sill and brings one leg up, resting his shoe on the wood as he takes hold of the open window over his head and then, in one fluid motion, stands, coming to his feet outside. He keeps one hand curled under the window for support as he shimmies to the side and steps off the sill and onto a thin outcrop of rock, vanishing from sight. When I stick my head out, I see him scaling the side of the Coronado, thin bit of stone to thin bit of stone until he reaches an open window roughly ten feet overhead. He hoists himself up into the window and sits there, elbows on his knees, looking down at me.

“Tell me that was more fun than it looks,” I say.

“Loads,” says Wes as I take a deep breath and climb out onto the frame, following his lead. My arm aches dully as I grip the bottom edge of the window for support, eyeing the surfacing stones that stand between me and 4F. They are not flat and smooth but jagged, worn away by time and weather like the gargoyles on the roof. Each is somewhere between a brick and a cinder block; as I reach for the first one, a pebble crumbles off overhead and skitters down the wall.

I am going to die. I always thought that if something in the Coronado killed me, it would be the elevators, but no. It will be this.