The Variables

“We’re not together,” Lucy said, turning to Grant. “We’re not together?”

“Hey.” Grant leaned down and kissed the top part of Lucy’s head. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll request to transfer. And there’s travel between the Islands, right? Until we get it sorted out. We’ll make it work. Maybe you can come to Copia with me.”

Lucy spun and looked at Cass, but Cass looked perplexed herself. “No transfers,” she said with sympathy. She stepped forward and dropped her voice. “You know how this works, Lucy—”

“That’s ridiculous. Grant is part of my family now. We’re staying together. Someone will have to fix it,” Lucy said. She tried to suppress the panic rising in her voice. She had just got him back; they’d only had a short time together. It was fixable. Hadn’t her father earned that much? “Dad? Dad. Please—”

When her father didn’t answer, she turned. It was only then that she noticed Scott had already taken off toward the stage, walking straight toward Huck, his hands clenched into fists by his side.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ethan sat on the edge of the bed. The prosthetic limb stretched out in front of him, a giant block of plastic and metal. He had no interest in getting up and walking around; his now unusual gait prevented him from feeling like the leg offered him a piece of himself back. Instead, it felt foreign, robotic. He pushed the plastic foot into the floor of the hospital room, and he felt the hydraulics bounce. It was heavy, cumbersome. The doctor had told him that it would take adjustment and therapy, but Ethan hadn’t said a word. Sometimes, especially when his mother came to visit, he wanted to speak; she was so relentless in her attempts to get him to talk. While she hadn’t quite slipped into bribery, he knew it was coming.

He wasn’t doing it to spite them.

There was simply nothing to say.

He had not been entirely lucid when the men arrived, but he relived those ten minutes in snapshots. It was like he was trying to call forth a dream after waking: some things felt so real, other things seemed so strange. First, he could see Doctor Krause’s body falling in a heap beside the couch. One minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. Teddy was crying. And there was smoke. From there, he couldn’t quite recall what happened next. He woke up in an elevator; lights flickered like he was headed into a mineshaft. After that, nothing. Not a glimmer of memory until he awoke from grogginess and realized, with deep anger, that his leg had been violated again.

What could he say?

His friends were gone.

And they had been right all along.

He hung his head and wept for them, like he did so often during the silence of his afternoons—when the doctors and nurses didn’t bother to engage him, and his own mother seemed preoccupied with other tasks. Kicking the prosthetic against the ground, he hoped it would break, but it proved resilient, and Ethan abandoned the effort.

The door creaked open and Ethan sat up. He wiped his tears and composed himself. When he finally turned around, he saw the black girl, the one his sister had brought with her on one of her visits, entering his room. Her hair was in braids and piled on the top of her head; she wore jeans and a bright green shirt that slipped off her shoulders. Ethan’s eyes lingered on her exposed collarbone for a second longer than he wanted them to. Under her arm, she had tucked a book, and when they made eye contact, she smiled and gave him a half-wave. She assessed him and examined his ru

Cass. He remembered. Cass.

“Bonswa,” she said and took another step inside. “I’m Cassandra. Cass. But you remember me. I know that you are not much for speaking these days, so...don’t worry...you don’t have to say a word.”

Ethan exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath.

“Did you hear the alarm? I suppose they didn’t make you go, but you missed quite the show.” She scratched at her hairline and tapped her fingers against her arm. “We’ll all be moving soon. You and me? To Kymberlin. I must admit, I knew I was going there...my father built me my own house. An apartment, really, but it will be mine. That is the reality of my life...isn’t this the time I’m supposed to be exploring life on my own? I’m twenty-two. Ha! Not that much older than you, but here we are, right? My place is lovely, or so I hear. It’s right at the water. When I open my shades, I will look out into the sea hitting my window. I could have had an underwater view, but this felt right. Better. I’d worry too much about the darkness of the deep if I couldn’t see the sky. There’s something about the sea that is quite terrifying, right? Your family will have quite the place, too. Not like here...crowded into a tiny space. No, no. I imagine you will be well cared for once the move occurs.”

She paused. Took several steps forward.

Ethan hadn’t moved, but he watched her. Cass.

“You wonder why I’m here. It’s strange?”

He turned away.

“I brought a book. Charles Baudelaire. Both in English and in French, which is lovely, isn’t it? It’s my father’s book, from his personal collection, and I’ve stolen it. May I sit?” she motioned to a chair in the corner. Ethan looked at the empty chair and then back at Cass. She smiled again and then walked over to the chair and sat.

“I just thought,” Cass continued, “that you’d want some company.”

Ethan looked down at the metal and plastic contraption hooked to his leg. He scooted himself back up on to his bed and then swung the prosthetic upward, where it landed with a plop. He stared at it, so unwieldy, and yet, if he were to cover himself with a blanket, it gave the illusion of wholeness.

“No expectations,” she added. “It’s not that I like to hear myself talk. I don’t, certainly, but...”

Cass stopped and looked at Ethan; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, what she was trying to convey.

“We could have a signal. If I get too a

She paused as if waiting for Ethan to confirm that he would comply. When he didn’t, she just continued on. Sitting back in the chair, she crossed a single leg over her other leg and set the book down in her lap.

“Well then. French poetry. I’m so sorry...it was the best I could do. I don’t like Baudelaire, myself. And it’s not because he’s too esoteric or too French, but really, I don’t agree with him. He believed mankind to be evil. Inherently. And I can’t bring myself to believe that yet. Not yet.” Cass paused and opened the book randomly, placing her finger over a poem and humming to herself. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s fine. I don’t see evil...I see sadness, anger, confusion, and...whether you want to believe this or not...good intentions. That doesn’t mean I have to go along with it. You either, for that matter.”

She looked down and examined the chair, then stood up and dragged it across the floor to the bedside.

“Better,” she a