“Again, I don’t need your advice on this matter.” I’m stepping out of my pants, folding them carefully to contain the small box still trapped in the pocket. “Leave.”
I turn on the shower, the sound of which distortsWinston’s voice. “Come on, man, don’t make this difficult. I was the only one willing to come get you this morning. Everyone else was too afraid. Even Kenji said he was too tired today to deal with your shit.”
I hesitate then.
I abandon the bathroom, returning to the closed door in only my boxer briefs. “Come get me for what?”
I feel Winston startle at the sound of my voice, so close. He equivocates, saying only: “Um, yeah, I can’t actually tell you.”
A terrifying unease moves through me at that. Winston’s guilt and fear is palpable, his anxiety growing.
Something is wrong.
I glance one last time at Ella’s empty bed before unlatching the lock. I’m only dimly aware of my appearance, that I’m opening the door in my underwear. I’m reminded swiftly of this fact when Winston does an exaggerated double take upon seeing me.
He quickly averts his eyes.
“Fucking hell—why did you have to take off your clothes?”
“What is going on?” I ask coldly. “Where is Juliette?”
“What? I don’t know.” Winston is turned away entirely now, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “And I’m not allowed to tell you what’s going on.”
“Why not?”
He looks up at that, meeting my eyes for only a nanosecond before turning sharply away; a mottled heat rushes up his neck, burns his ears. “Please, for the love of God,” he says, yanking off his glasses to rub at his face. “Put on some clothes. I can’t talk to you like this.”
“Then leave.”
Winston only shakes his head, crossing his arms against his chest. “I can’t. And I can’t tell you what’s going on, because it’s supposed to be a surprise.”
The fight leaves my body in a single gust, leaving me light-headed. “A surprise?”
“Can you please go take a shower? I’ll wait for you outside the MT. Just—just show up with your clothes on.Please.”
I let the door slam shut between us, then stare at it, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. There’s a wave of relief from Winston, then a flicker of happiness.
He seems—excited.
I finally walk away, stepping out of my underwear and tossing it into a nearby laundry bin before entering the quickly steaming bathroom. I catch my reflection in the floor-length mirror affixed to the wall, my face and body being devoured slowly by steam.
It’s supposed to be a surprise.
For a protracted moment, I can’t seem to move. My eyes, I notice, are dilated in this dim light—darker. I look slightly different to myself, my body hardening by degrees every day.I’ve always been toned, but this is different. My face has lost any lingering softness. My chest is broader, my legs more firmly planted. These slight changes in muscle definition, in vascularity—
I can see myself getting older.
Our research for The Reestablishment indicated that there was once a time when thetwentieswere considered the prime years of youth. I always struggled to visualize this world, one wherein teenagers were treated like children, where those in their twenties felt young and carefree, their futures boundless.
It sounded like fiction.
And yet—I have often played this game in the privacy of my mind.In another world, I might live in a house with my parents.In another world, I might not even be expected to have a job. In another world, I might not know the weight of death, might never have held a gun, shot a bullet, killed so many. The thoughts register as absurd even as I think them: that in an alternate universe I might be considered some kind of adolescent, free from responsibility.
Strange.
Was there ever truly a world wherein parents did the job expected of them? Was there ever a reality in which the adults were not murdered merely for resisting fascism, leaving their young children behind to raise themselves?
Here, we are nearly all of us a contingent of orphans roaming—then running—this broken planet.
