After the End

I set the book down on my bunk to get a bottle of water, and when I come back, the pages have flipped to the front. I begin turning back to my place, but I see something that makes me hesitate. I go back to the copyright page.

The book was published in 2002.

I stare at the number. And then I drop the book, recoiling as if it had transformed into a rattlesnake. I stumble to my feet and back up as far as I can, wedging myself into a corner of the room.

My head spins and I feel like I’m going to keel over. Unthinkable thoughts keep careening around inside my mind. The elders said they escaped just before war broke out in the spring of 1984. Yet Whit had a book published in 2002.

Suddenly, I remember the expression on my father’s face whenever I asked him about the war. About his and my mother’s flight to safety. He never looked me in the eye when he told me that story. I always thought it was because the memories disturbed him. But that wasn’t why.

It was because there was no war.

He knew. They all knew, and someone—probably Whit—had even gone off-territory to get this book. The elders lied to us. Whit lied to us. My father . . . lied to me.

For the last twenty-four hours, my heart has known what my mind couldn’t admit. They knew.

I sink to the floor. Putting my head between my knees, I wrap my arms around my folded legs and rock back and forth. My mouth is dry and metallic tasting.

If the fundamental elements of my life—who I am, why and where my clan lived as we did . . . are all lies, then what can I believe? I have no idea what is truth and what is fiction. I have been brainwashed my entire childhood.

I’m all I’ve got now. I can’t trust anyone.

16

MILES

HOW DO YOU SEARCH AN ENTIRE CITY FOR SOMEONE you’ve never seen? You try to get into their head and think of where they would go. This is a teenage girl I’m talking about, so my first thought is shopping. But when I arrive in Seattle Saturday night, the stores are already closing.

My second thought is to check the city’s popular hangout spots. My internet search of Seattle told me to go to Capitol Hill, Belltown, and here, Pioneer Square, where I am sitting on the steps, eating a sandwich. For an hour, I watch people come and go, and don’t see anyone who fits the description on Dad’s notepad.

I drive north to Capitol Hill and begin combing the streets, looking for a girl with two huskies. How hard can that be? I think. But as I walk I begin to get an idea of the scale of the city and start to realize how stupid my plan is. It would be like trying to spot a friend at the Super Bowl without having a clue where their seat is. How in the world am I going to find one girl in the middle of this enormous city? I am well and truly fucked.

17

JUNEAU

THE DAY I ARRIVE IN SEATTLE, I WANDER FOR hours watching the city, trying to understand how it works: the cars and the different-colored lights that show them when to stop or go, the people dressed in the same dark colors, walking swiftly and looking worried, as if they are all about to miss something important. I move past them, unremarkable in my boy’s clothes, cap pulled low over my eyes so that people won’t stare at them.

I stalk the city like an animal until I understand its rhythm and can walk through its streets as invisible as I am when I hunt my prey. Once I am able to navigate with confidence, I decide to try to reproduce my most successful Reading so far and set out to find another oracle.

“Look, it’s Crazy Frankie,” I hear a little boy say to his mother. She shushes him and walks quickly away. I look to where he was pointing and see him sitting against a building on a street corner: A broken man, wizened skin like moose-hide leather left for months in the sun. A hat sits in front of him with coins inside, and empty metal cans with BEER printed on them are scattered around him.

I approach. His odor is pungent. Rancid. “May I sit next to you?” I ask, and he looks up at me with watery red eyes.

“Sure,” he says, and knocks a few of the cans out of the way. I ignore the stares of the passersby who look at us oddly.

“Can I ask you some questions?” I ask.

“Well, why not? Shoot away!” he says, and I reach for his hand. His fingers are caked with grime; his fingernails outlined in dirt. I grasp my opal with my free hand and look him straight in the eyes. “Do you mind being my oracle?” I ask. “There is some information I need to know.”

“Well, I can sure as hell try,” he says with a shattered-glass voice. And as the tingling of the Yara co

“I am picturing my father in my mind. Could you tell me how I can find him?”

The man sits silently for a moment, looking at a space above my head. “You can’t do it alone,” he says finally. “You must find someone to take you on your journey.”

“Who?” I ask. “How will I find them?”

Frankie leans his head to one side like he’s thinking, and then says, “You will know who he is because his name will take you far.”

My heart drops. It’s a riddle. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed. I can’t expect a clear answer from a divination. “Can you tell me anything else about this person?”

“Yes,” responds Frankie. “You must be completely honest with him. Tell him everything he wants to know. But whatever you do, don’t trust him. He needs you as much as you need him.”

I push a little further. “Once I find the person you’re talking about, where do we go to find my father?”

“South . . . southeast. A place that is the exact opposite of here,” Frankie says, and an image forms in my mind of a barren landscape with cactus and strange rock formations.

He’s given me more than I was hoping for. “Thank you,” I say.

“One more thing,” the man says, and I can feel our link weakening and see the watery haze start to return to his eyes. “When you find the one who will accompany you, don’t let him use his cell phone.”

“What’s a cell phone?” I ask, releasing his hand and letting our co

“Thank you for helping me,” I say, and fishing in my bag, pull out a few bills and place them carefully in his hat.

He picks up the money and looks up at me, surprised. “Hey, missy, that’s way too much,” he says as I walk away.

“It’s not, believe me,” I say, and set out to find a place to sleep for the night.

18

MILES

I’VE BEEN WANDERING FOR HOURS WITH NO LUCK, feeling like the biggest fool on earth. I want to give up, but remember the look on my father’s face when he said I needed to prove myself to him. That’ll never happen in the mail room. I’ve got to find this girl.

I try to think like a detective would. If you’re new to a city, you most likely go to touristy areas. I walk up a road with several restaurant terraces and sit down on a street bench to watch the people passing by.

At least I got out of the house for the weekend. When I told Mrs. Kirby I would be fine on my own, she actually sounded relieved. And I answered Dad’s Is everything okay? text this morning with: Just watching TV in my jail cell. Don’t worry, I’m fine.

I finally get up and begin following signs for Pike Place Market, the one spot in Seattle that I’ve actually heard of. Across the street a rowdy crowd sits at tables outside a sports bar. I doubt this girl will be in that group. I sigh. This is worse than finding a needle in a haystack.