UnSouled

“I hate to kill the dream,” she says, “but the black market won’t deal with morons. I mean, you have to know how to read if you’re going to sign a contract.”

“Very fu

“Seriously, maybe you should have gotten some brains to go along with that hair.”

It only makes him chuckle. “Bad-mouth me all you want, girlie. It’s not go

Risa thought there was no way she could possibly hate this man more . . . but calling her “girlie” opens up a whole new level of loathing. She begins her next round of attacks—this time against his family. His gene pool. His mother.

“So did they slaughter the cow that gave birth to you, or did it die of natural causes?”

He continues his stall tidying, but his focus is gone. Risa can tell he’s getting rankled. “You shut up. I don’t gotta take crap like that from a dirty Unwind bitch!”

Good. Let him curse at her. Because the angrier he gets, the more it plays in Risa’s favor. Now she delivers her final salvo. A series of cruel assertions about the man’s anatomy. Assertions of severe inadequacy. At least some of them must be true, because he loses it, getting red in the face.

“When I’m done with you,” he growls, “you ain’t go

He lunges for her, his big hands out in front of him—and as he throws himself forward, Risa raises the pitchfork that she’s concealed in the hay. She doesn’t have to do any more than that: just hold the thing up. His weight and momentum do all the work.

The amateur parts pirate thoroughly impales himself and pulls back, taking the pitchfork with him.

“Whad’ya do to me! Whad’ya do!”

The pitchfork flails back and forth like an appendage in his chest as he curses and screams. Risa knows it’s hit some vital organ because of all the blood and the speed at which he goes down. In less than ten seconds, he collapses against the far wall of the stall and dies with his eyes open and staring not quite at her, but off to her left, as if maybe in his last moments he saw an angel over her shoulder, or Satan, or whatever a man like him sees when he dies.

Risa considers herself a compassionate human being, but she feels no remorse for this man. She does, however, begin to feel a deepening sense of regret. Because her hand is still caught in the cable. And the only human being who knows she’s here is now lying across the stall, dead.

And Risa ca

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“You wonder who I am? Yeah, sometimes I do too. My name is Cyrus Finch. My name is also Tyler Walker. At least one-eighth of me is. See, it’s like that when you get jacked up on some other dude’s gray matter, dig? Now I don’t feel like me or him, but less than both of us. Less than whole.

“If you’ve gotten yourself an unwound part and regret it, you’re not alone. That’s why I started the Tyler Walker Foundation. Call us at 800-555-1010. We don’t want your money; we don’t want your vote—we just want to fix what’s broken. That’s 800-555-1010. We’ll help you make peace with your piece.”

—Sponsored by the Tyler Walker Foundation.

The parts pirate, who had no intention of dying, had left the barn door open. A coyote comes to visit that night. When Risa first sees it, she yells at it, throws hay, and heaves a garden hoe. The hoe hits it on the nose hard enough to make it yelp and leave in a hurry. Risa knows nothing of wild animals, their natures, or habits. She does know that coyotes are carnivorous but she’s not sure if they hunt alone or in packs. If it returns with its mangy brethren, she’s done for.

It comes back an hour later, alone. It takes little interest in her, other than to note whether or not she’s still in a throwing mood. The point is moot, since there’s nothing left in her reach to throw. She yells at it, but it ignores her, focusing all of its attention on the parts pirate, who isn’t putting up any resistance.

The coyote dines on the man, who is already begi

Watching the coyote eat eventually desensitizes her to the horror of it. She finds herself objective, almost as if watching from a safe distance. She idly wonders which is crueler, man or nature. She determines it must be man. Nature has no remorse, but neither does it have malice. Plants take in the light of the sun and give off oxygen with the same life-affirming need that a tiger tears into a toddler. Or a scavenger devours a lowlife.

The coyote leaves. Dawn breaks. Dehydration begins to take its toll on Risa, and she hopes the thirst will kill her before the coyote finds her alive but too weak to fend off its advances. She slips in and out of consciousness, and her life begins to scroll before her eyes.

The flashing of one’s life, Risa finds, is by no means complete; nor does it take into account the value of memories. It is as random as the stuff of dreams, just a little more co

The Cafeteria Fight

She’s seven years old and fighting another girl who insists that Risa stole her clothes. It’s a ridiculous assertion, because everyone in the state home wears the same basic utilitarian uniforms. Risa’s too young at the time to know that it’s not about clothes but about dominance. Social position. The girl is larger than her, meaner than her—but when the girl pins her to the ground, Risa gouges the girl’s eyes, flips her, and spits in her face—which is what the girl was trying to do when she pi

A Practice Room

She’s twelve and playing piano in a small acoustic-tiled room of Ohio State Home 23. The piano is out of tune, but she’s used to that. Risa plays the Baroque piece flawlessly. In the audience, disembodied faces observe, stony and impassionate, in spite of the passion with which she plays. This time she does fine. It’s only when it matters four years later that she chokes.

The Harvest Camp Bus

The administration has decided that the best way to deal with budget cuts is to unwind one-tenth of the home’s teen population. They call it forced downsizing. The glitches and clunkers in Risa’s pivotal piano recital leave her firmly placed within that 10 percent. Sitting next to her on the bus is a mealy boy by the name of Samson Ward. An odd name for a scrawny kid, but since all state home orphans are, by law, given the last name of Ward, first names tend to be, if not entirely unique, at least fairly uncommon and often ironic because they’re not chosen by loving parents, but by bureaucrats. The kind who might think giving a sickly premature baby the name “Samson” is droll.

“I’d rather be partly great than entirely useless,” Samson says. This memory has the perspective of hindsight. Samson, she discovered much later, had a secret crush on her, which expressed itself in the person of Camus Comprix. Cam had received the part of Samson’s brain that did algebra and apparently also had fantasies about unattainable girls. Samson was a math genius—but not enough of one to keep him out of the unlucky 10 percent.