But I should. I should want to wake.
Zen is real. He’s here. Now. And he needs me.
Kaelen is some kind of mistake. A confusion. An error.
Someone I shouldn’t want to exist. Someone I shouldn’t want to dream about. Someone I shouldn’t want.
“Sera?” Zen’s frail voice interrupts my thoughts and I blink down at him, forcing a carefree smile that makes me feel like a fraud.
“I’m here,” I reply, squeezing his hand.
“Where are we?” His voice is so airy, so light, it feels like it will blow away if I exhale too hard.
“We’re in the year 2032. At Cody’s house. Remember Cody?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. He’s going to make you better.”
“I want to be better.”
I bite my lip to keep from breaking into sobs. “I know. I do, too.”
“Then we can run away again.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Where do you want to go?”
His eyes remain closed, he shifts uncomfortably. “The moon?”
I grin. “That sounds like a good idea. Or maybe Venus?”
“Too hot,” he breathes.
I release a small giggle. “Okay, not Venus.”
There’s a long silence and I think he may have fallen asleep again but then another frail whisper breaks through. “Sera?”
“Yes?”
I feel the slightest pressure on my hand as he attempts to squeeze it. “Did I ever tell you about the bench?” he asks.
My brow furrows. “What bench?”
“I guess not.”
“Why don’t you tell me now,” I suggest, desperate to make this rare moment of coherency last as long as possible.
“It was made of white marble,” he goes on with difficulty. “In your front yard.”
“On the compound?”
He lets out a ragged cough, blood spattering the sheets. “Yes.”
I pluck a tissue and wipe his lips.
“It was how I knew every time they erased your memory of me.”
“From a bench?” I clarify doubtfully, wondering if the fever is making him delusional.
He attempts a nod but his head barely moves. “Every morning when you woke up, you were supposed to bury something under the bench.”
“Bury something? Like what?”
His smile is strained as he remembers. “It was always different. Some days a flower. Other days a rock. One time you buried a spoon. It was your signal to me that you remembered.”
“Remembered what?” I ask.
“Me.”
I fall silent, pressing my lips together.
Zen continues. “If I arrived and didn’t find anything buried under the bench, I knew that they had erased me again. And that I’d have to start all over.”
“How did you find the strength to do it so many times?” I ask. “Why did you keep coming back when you knew I’d look at you like you were a stranger?”
He closes his eyes and for a moment I think he’s fallen back asleep. But then he whispers, “You never looked at me like I was a stranger. That’s how I knew they could never win.”
I rest my head on his chest, listening to his irregular heartbeat.
“I haven’t forgotten, you know,” he says.
“Forgotten what?”
“What we promised to do. In the woods. Are you still ready?” His words come out choppy. Disjointed.
I close my eyes, remembering that unfamiliar craving I felt when I was lying on top of him. The warm desire that flooded through me. Zen’s promise that whatever it was would bring us closer together. As close as we could ever be.
Remembering how we were torn apart—by sickness, by guards, by Diotech—before we could hold true to our promise.
I lift my head and lock onto his dark eyes. “Of course. I can’t wait.”
His lips curl into a weak smile and he drifts to sleep like that. His breathing falls back into an easy rhythm and his body goes still again.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It reads 7:05.
I don’t know if Cody has had ample time to digest everything he’s learned or what kind of mental state he’s in but I need to get out of this room. I need to breathe different air. See different faces. Occupy a new space. I bend forward to kiss Zen’s hand and then set it to rest by his side. I rise achingly to my feet and ease open the door. Completely unsure of what I’ll find on the other side.
39
OFFSPRUNG
The delicious smell of food cooking wafts into my nostrils and nearly knocks me over as soon as I enter the hallway. My mouth starts watering and a gurgle emanates from my stomach. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t eaten since … well, since 1609.