Some of the parents were holding up signs.
Where is Charlie?
Where is Bette?
We love you! With the ink bleeding from the rain.
We miss you!
Are you okay?
There wasn’t much paper left in the FAYZ, and kids had come at a run, not even waiting to grab anything. But some found pieces of wallboard or tattered windblown scraps of cardboard, and used bits of gravel to write back.
I love you, too.
Tell my mom I’m okay!
Help us.
And all of this was watched by the TV camera on the helicopter, and the people, the adults—parents and cops and gawkers. Half a dozen smartphones were snapping pictures and shooting video. Astrid knew that more, many, many more, would come.
There were boats beginning to appear on the ocean outside the dome. And they, too, stared with binoculars and telephoto lenses.
An old couple came running from a motorhome, scribbling as they ran. Their sign read, Can you check on our cat, Ariel?
No one would answer that, because the cats had all been eaten.
Where is my daughter? And a name.
Where is my son? And a name.
And whose job was it, Astrid wondered bitterly, to write the answers? Dead. Dead. Died of carnivorous worms. Died of a coyote attack.
Murdered in a fight over a bag of chips.
Dead of suicide.
Dead because she was playing with matches and we don’t exactly have a fire department.
Killed because it was the only way we could deal with him.
How did one explain to all those watching eyes what life was like inside the FAYZ?
Then a familiar car that almost rear-ended a parked police cruiser. A man jumped out. A woman moved slowly, unsteady. Astrid’s mother and father came to the barrier. Her father was holding her mother up, as though she might collapse.
The sight of them tore Astrid apart. The adults and older teens who had been in the FAYZ area when Petey had performed his mad miracle had obviously made it out. How many thousands of hours had Astrid spent trying to figure it out, trying to walk through each possible outcome? Parents dead, parents alive, parents all off in some parallel universe, parents with all memory rewritten, parents erased from past as well as present.
Now they were back, crying, waving, staring, carrying loads of emotional baggage and demanding explanations that most kids—Astrid included—could not somehow reduce to a few words scratched on a piece of plaster, or gouged with a nail on a piece of wood.
Where is Petey?
Astrid’s mother held that sign. She’d written it with a Magic Marker on the side of a canvas bag, because now the rain was too intense to allow for paper.
Astrid stared at it for a long time. And in the end she could manage no answer better than a shrug and a shake of her head.
I don’t know where Petey is.
I don’t even know what Petey is.
Sam was beside her, not touching her, not with so many eyes watching. She wanted to lean against him. She wanted to close her eyes and, when she opened them again, be with him up at the lake.
Desperate months had gone by when all Astrid had wanted was to be out of this place and back in her old life as her parents’ loving daughter. Now she could barely stand to look at them. Now she sought desperately for an excuse to leave. They were strangers. And she knew, as Sam had always known, that they would in the end be accusers.
They were a stab in her heart when she just could not take any more, when she just could not start to feel any more. Too much. She couldn’t switch suddenly from one despair to a different despair.
Dekka stood behind Sam with her arms crossed, almost as if she were hiding. Quinn and Lana stood a little apart, just marveling at the sight of the outside world, but having as yet no faces to connect with.
“We’re monkeys in a zoo,” Sam said.
“No,” Astrid said. “People like monkeys. Look at the way they look at us. Imagine what they’re seeing.”
“I’ve been picturing it since the beginning.”
Astrid nodded. “Yeah.”
“You want to know what they see? What my mother sees? A boy who fired light from his hands and tried to incinerate a baby,” Sam said harshly. “They saw me burn a child. No explanation will ever change that.”
“We look like savages. Filthy and starved, dressed like street people,” Astrid said. “Weapons everywhere. A girl lying dead with a rock crushing her brains.” She looked at her mother and oh, there was no avoiding her mother’s look of … of what? Not joy. Not relief.
Horror.
Distance.
Both sides, parents and children, now saw the huge gulf that had opened up between them. Astrid’s father seemed small. Her mother looked old. They both were like ancient photographs of themselves, not like real people. Not as real as her memories of them.
Astrid felt as if their eyes were looking through her, searching for a memory of their daughter. Like they didn’t want to see her, but some girl she had long since ceased to be.
Brianna came zooming up, a welcome distraction that caused silent faces on the other side to form round circles with their mouths: Ooh. Ahh. And hands to point and cameras to swivel. Brianna gave a little salute and a wave.
“She’s ready for her close-up,” Dekka said dryly.
“Is it bright in here, or is it just me?” Brianna said. Then she drew her machete, whirled it at ten times human speed, stopped, sheathed it again, and executed a little bow to the baffled and appalled onlookers. “Yes. Yes: I will play myself in the movie. The Breeze is way beyond special effects.”
Where is Charlie?
Where is Bette?
We love you! With the ink bleeding from the rain.
We miss you!
Are you okay?
There wasn’t much paper left in the FAYZ, and kids had come at a run, not even waiting to grab anything. But some found pieces of wallboard or tattered windblown scraps of cardboard, and used bits of gravel to write back.
I love you, too.
Tell my mom I’m okay!
Help us.
And all of this was watched by the TV camera on the helicopter, and the people, the adults—parents and cops and gawkers. Half a dozen smartphones were snapping pictures and shooting video. Astrid knew that more, many, many more, would come.
There were boats beginning to appear on the ocean outside the dome. And they, too, stared with binoculars and telephoto lenses.
An old couple came running from a motorhome, scribbling as they ran. Their sign read, Can you check on our cat, Ariel?
No one would answer that, because the cats had all been eaten.
Where is my daughter? And a name.
Where is my son? And a name.
And whose job was it, Astrid wondered bitterly, to write the answers? Dead. Dead. Died of carnivorous worms. Died of a coyote attack.
Murdered in a fight over a bag of chips.
Dead of suicide.
Dead because she was playing with matches and we don’t exactly have a fire department.
Killed because it was the only way we could deal with him.
How did one explain to all those watching eyes what life was like inside the FAYZ?
Then a familiar car that almost rear-ended a parked police cruiser. A man jumped out. A woman moved slowly, unsteady. Astrid’s mother and father came to the barrier. Her father was holding her mother up, as though she might collapse.
The sight of them tore Astrid apart. The adults and older teens who had been in the FAYZ area when Petey had performed his mad miracle had obviously made it out. How many thousands of hours had Astrid spent trying to figure it out, trying to walk through each possible outcome? Parents dead, parents alive, parents all off in some parallel universe, parents with all memory rewritten, parents erased from past as well as present.
Now they were back, crying, waving, staring, carrying loads of emotional baggage and demanding explanations that most kids—Astrid included—could not somehow reduce to a few words scratched on a piece of plaster, or gouged with a nail on a piece of wood.
Where is Petey?
Astrid’s mother held that sign. She’d written it with a Magic Marker on the side of a canvas bag, because now the rain was too intense to allow for paper.
Astrid stared at it for a long time. And in the end she could manage no answer better than a shrug and a shake of her head.
I don’t know where Petey is.
I don’t even know what Petey is.
Sam was beside her, not touching her, not with so many eyes watching. She wanted to lean against him. She wanted to close her eyes and, when she opened them again, be with him up at the lake.
Desperate months had gone by when all Astrid had wanted was to be out of this place and back in her old life as her parents’ loving daughter. Now she could barely stand to look at them. Now she sought desperately for an excuse to leave. They were strangers. And she knew, as Sam had always known, that they would in the end be accusers.
They were a stab in her heart when she just could not take any more, when she just could not start to feel any more. Too much. She couldn’t switch suddenly from one despair to a different despair.
Dekka stood behind Sam with her arms crossed, almost as if she were hiding. Quinn and Lana stood a little apart, just marveling at the sight of the outside world, but having as yet no faces to connect with.
“We’re monkeys in a zoo,” Sam said.
“No,” Astrid said. “People like monkeys. Look at the way they look at us. Imagine what they’re seeing.”
“I’ve been picturing it since the beginning.”
Astrid nodded. “Yeah.”
“You want to know what they see? What my mother sees? A boy who fired light from his hands and tried to incinerate a baby,” Sam said harshly. “They saw me burn a child. No explanation will ever change that.”
“We look like savages. Filthy and starved, dressed like street people,” Astrid said. “Weapons everywhere. A girl lying dead with a rock crushing her brains.” She looked at her mother and oh, there was no avoiding her mother’s look of … of what? Not joy. Not relief.
Horror.
Distance.
Both sides, parents and children, now saw the huge gulf that had opened up between them. Astrid’s father seemed small. Her mother looked old. They both were like ancient photographs of themselves, not like real people. Not as real as her memories of them.
Astrid felt as if their eyes were looking through her, searching for a memory of their daughter. Like they didn’t want to see her, but some girl she had long since ceased to be.
Brianna came zooming up, a welcome distraction that caused silent faces on the other side to form round circles with their mouths: Ooh. Ahh. And hands to point and cameras to swivel. Brianna gave a little salute and a wave.
“She’s ready for her close-up,” Dekka said dryly.
“Is it bright in here, or is it just me?” Brianna said. Then she drew her machete, whirled it at ten times human speed, stopped, sheathed it again, and executed a little bow to the baffled and appalled onlookers. “Yes. Yes: I will play myself in the movie. The Breeze is way beyond special effects.”
