We follow the other Sixers down a narrow corridor and up a staircase into another, narrower corridor. The walls are constructed in brown metal paneling, the bolts and wires exposed. No windows. Yellow overhead lighting. There’s a hydraulic door that opens into a single shared bathroom with a sink and a shower, and beyond that, five more doors that lead to the bedrooms. Lament stops at the one farthest down the hall, which creaks open to reveal a closet-size interior featuring a chair, a tiny desk, and two cots built into the wall.
“Oh,” I say. And then again, because apparently the first time wasn’t enough, “Oh.”
“Something wrong?”
“No—uh. We’re sharing?”
“A room, yes. Partners with partners.” He waves an unaffected hand. “Don’t worry. The beds are separate.”
Right, yes,technicallythe cots are not touching, but they’re built into a single cubby with what I’m hazarding is a mere inch between them.
I tell myself not to make it something it isn’t. “Right. Good. Great.”
The room, like those back at the detachment, is stocked with everything we need: pajamas, slippers, toothbrushes, and toothpaste. I take my turn in the bathroom first, showering away two days of grime (the hot water feelsdelicious) before returning to change into my nightclothes. Though I’m keeping my eyes straight ahead, I’m painfully aware of Lament preparing for his shower beside me: the flash of pale skin as he peels off his jacket, the shuffleof bare feet meeting the bare floor. He’s moving slower than usual because of his injury, dragging out the moment. He makes it as far as unbuckling his belt, then gathers his toiletries and heads to the bathroom.
I use the opportunity to shuck off the rest of my clothes, race into my pajamas (a matching set, Legion-issued and therefore plain white), and dive under the covers. When Lament returns (smelling like pine trees and fresh linen), he flips off the light and slides into the cot next to mine. Which feelsvery muchlike he’s sliding into bed with me.
I tell myself that’s not what’s happening, but the small garden gnome that moonlights as my brain refuses to believe it.
We lie there in our not-shared bed. I try not to fidget, but my ears are hot. And my nose itches. And I’m uncertain whether spontaneous combustion is a real thing, but if it is, we’re about to enjoy a firsthand demonstration.
Lament sighs in the dark. “I can practically hear your thoughts going.”
“Sorry.” I flip toward him, realize how close that puts our faces, and flip away again. “Lots on my mind. Obviously. I mean, there’s probably a lot on your mind, too. More than a lot. You nearly died yesterday. And then there’s everything we just learned about Mount Kilmon and the voroxide and what that means for—sorry. I’ll stop talking.”
“Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I just did.”
“What’sreallybothering you.”
The memory of my mom in a crowd of Determinists sparks in my vision. “I don’t know.”
“Hartman.” I can hear his sheets shuffle. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to, because all I’vedoneis look at him. “I’m good.”
“What was it you were telling me earlier?” His voice is different than I’ve ever heard it. Earnest and honest, a little bit tender. “You can tell me what’s wrong. You’re safe here.”
He touches my shoulder, and that’s all it takes, really. Just the barest hint of pressure and I’m giving like butter, twisting to face him. The roomis dark, but a square of soft yellow hallway light slips under the door, illuminating the space just enough for us to see.
Lament says, “I know you’re worried.”
He’s right. It feels like everything is stuck on spin cycle in my head: Ran Doc Min’s predictions, the poisonous volcano, Professor Morton’s warning. Mount Kilmon is going to blow, and Master Ira is going to die, and my home planet will be destroyed, or will be taken over by a man with a goatee in a cape, and I shouldn’t care,I should not care,but every time I think about it, I feel like someone’s shoving a metal rod down my windpipe.
Lament works the inside of his cheek with his teeth. “Does the Master still live here?”
“In Longji, yeah.”
“That’s not far from here.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” I pull the sheets around my head so only my face shows, like a turtle in its shell. “You think I should go to him. Confront him.”
“Not necessarily. I’m not sure he deserves the effort, seeing as he’s ignored your past attempts.”
“But?”
“But… if you wanted to be the bigger person, then yes, I believe reaching out would be the right thing.”
