“With no meat on your bones, how are you going to run fast enough whentheycome?”
The former Hand knew exactly whotheywere—the timewraiths that always lurked just close to the fields, waiting for Sparetime. They had units of the queens’ soldiers permanently stationed very near their home, equipped totake care of the monsters with the long fingers and their never-dying thirst for time. It was his job to go calling for the soldiers the moment he spotted the wraiths near the fields. He had to run as fast as he could, lest the wraiths make it all the way to town, and then everything would be over.
“I’ll be fine,” the former Hand insisted, for he no longer had the same rush of fear going through him at the thought of wraiths, like he’d had all his life. But when he made for the door, his mother stepped in front of him, twice as wide as his bony shoulders, her fists against her hips as she looked up at him from dark, almost black eyes.
Then she slowly turned her head aside. “Aren’t you gonna give your momma a kiss before you leave?”
Aren’tyouever going to tell me what happened to me in Neverwhen?
Of course, he said no such thing. He’d tried once—it hadn’t ended well. So, the thought remained in his head, and his lips kissed the soft cheek of his mother while Eveline rolled her eyes from the table, and then the day really began.
He went through the motions. Helped with the containers, placed them into the large vehicle that gathered the Sparetime from the fields, and then when they were done, he loaded the containers onto the trucks to be sent to the Factory—the place where they compressed Sparetime, then put it into diamonds.
He did this with all the kids his age that lived in town, whenever school was out, and though he’d hated it before, now it was a relief to have something to move for. It was a relief to have something to focus on, other than the stares and the sorry smiles and the flinches of the boys and girls he grew up with, most of whom he’d considered friends before.
But friends didn’t let friends lose their memories and not tell them all about it no matter what any decree said, royal or otherwise. At least that was the former Hand’s belief. Andnone of his friends had wanted to hear about it when he still cared to speak, to ask questions, to demand they tell him what he’d lost.
It wasn’t fair, was it? It wasn’t fair that the whole world knew what he’d lost, andhehimself, one of the few they claimedsavedthem all, remained so…empty. Completely hollowed out.
So, he kept to himself now, didn’t speak to anyone, and they eagerly left him alone for they knew he only had questions if they cornered him.
They did not like his questions at all.
In his mind, the former Hand was in another place altogether while he worked. He was in Neverwhen, in that arena where he’d woken up with eight others around him, people who were dressed in almost identical clothes, with almost identical expressions on their faces. They’d all thought it was agoodthing to be woken up in the middle of a foreign place, with people cheering their names, throwing roses at them, waving. They’d all thought it was a goodthing.
And then they’d found out it wasn’t.
The former Hand had never felt more worthless than when he was put into that carriage with a scroll in his hands and told he was going home. No explanation, no nothing—just a new chronobank full of minutes, and money in his bank account.
Except hecouldn’texactly do magic, and he couldn’t access the money in his new account until he started school—which was the one thing that made him…less stressed. His father (and his mother) were counting down the days before they could get their hands on what he’d earned in exchange forhis memoriesfor four whole weeks—and sometimes, when he was out there sitting in front of the field, looking at the sky, he liked to fantasize about having the courage toleave.To get up and tell his parents that what he’d earned washis,and he was going to use it to start a life for himself away from them, that he didn’t want to be living here in this town, but away. Far away from them. From anything he knew.
Yes, he fantasized regularly.
But this was real life, not a fantasy. And in real life, the former Hand finished all his chores, stayed past dinner hoping he’d be alone to eat in the kitchen by the time he made it home, that his father wouldn’t be there with his wine, making plans about all the thingshewas going to do when he had access to the former Hand’s bank account.
All the while he wished he could just disappear.
Even when his sister went inside and left him alone to drag the last container into the shed. Even when his limbs were shaking, his stomach rumbling, his mind screaming, he wished he could just disappear. The shed was huge, the ceiling high, and every small noise echoed at least a dozen times, so when he finally pushed the plastic container in place, and a cry escaped him, ripped from his very soul.
The echo of it stayed in his ears for a good while.
There he stood with his eyes closed, his hands on the edges of the barrel-shaped plastic that buzzed still with Sparetime residue. It was as tall as him, so he could lean against it, press his forehead to the cold surface, breathe and try not to think, or at least think ofsomething else.Something other than the fact that his life feltstolenfrom him, just taken out of his hands. Something other than the emptiness gnawing at his insides so much worse than the hunger. Something other than theotherHands who’d looked so excited to be standing in a circle with him that day, before they were all taken away by soldiers.
Soldiers—like they were some kind of criminals.
He’d gone to the Turning Trials to gather courage to choose himself, this boy. Better yet—to prove to himself that he could stand on his own.
Now here he was, crying in a shed full of empty Sparetime containers.
Minutes passed, and then he straightened up, wiped his face, and turned to leave.
He hadn’t noticed the two shadows falling just behind his feet at all, and he didn’t see the two men waiting for him by the shed’s doors in the dark until it was too late.
3
Mimi Montes
The Club girl ran—whichwas a very Clubthing to do. All Clubs ran. It was how they kept Time moving.
