82
Ms. B hustles back down the hall, and once again I double my efforts to keep up.
But then the office door flies open. Dr. Iverson rushing after us, her eyes wild.
“Ms. Barrantes, the difference in your story is,” Dr. Iverson shouts down the hall. “That person got to decide.”
I look at Ms. B. She presses the elevator button.
Dr. Iverson’s voice still booming. “She had time to come to terms. To say her last words.”
The elevator chimes, the door opens. Ms. B steps inside and I follow, Dr. Iverson right behind us now.
“Quincy didn’t get that tonight. But doesn’t he deserve it?”
I tilt my head to catch Ms. B’s eyes. “Are you sure?” I ask softly, so only she can hear.
The door now sliding.
“Ms. B,” I say quietly.
Dr. Iverson one step outside the threshold. “Ms. Barrantes, doesn’t your son deserve the same chance?”
“Ms. B,” I say again. “Ms. Barrantes? Ms. Barrantes?”
The doors nearly closed.
But then Ms. B throws her arm in between.
81
“Why my son? Why my Quincy?”
Dr. Iverson frowns. “I’m afraid that I can’t tell you.”
“And why not?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not being cute. I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I qualify our reanimation candidates, but I don’t select them.”
The elevator alarm sounds. It wants to close, but Ms. B’s arm is there.
She nods at me, and we step back into the hall. “Who does the selecting?”
“Usually? A board.”
“You said usually. Not this time?”
“I’ll be honest, we haven’t reanimated anyone under these circumstances.”
I jump in. “Circumstances?”
Dr. Iverson glances my way. “We’ve performed nine reanimations. All were already being prepped prior to their deaths, because their deaths were expected.”
“But my son’s death was decidedly not expected.”
Dr. Iverson nods.
“So, this would be your first spontaneous reanimation?”
Another nod.
“If we do this, will he . . . be in any pain?”
Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “Quincy won’t feel a thing.”
Ms. B’s fingers trace the elevator panel, like she’s deciding if she should push the button, step back inside, walk into her empty house, alone. “He deserves more time,” Ms. B says finally. “You’re right. Everyone deserves one last word.” Her hand drops to her side. “Doctor, you’ll take good care of my son?”
“I’ll personally oversee the entire reanimation.”
Ms. B nods, and Dr. Iverson takes her hand. “You’re making the right decision.”
Dr. Iverson glances at her watch, smiles. “I apologize, but as I mentioned, we don’t have a lot of time. I should’ve already left the hospital. If you’ll follow me back to—”
I cut in. “Left for where?”
“The Center,” she answers.
“What center?” Ms. Barrantes asks. “You aren’t doing the . . . procedure here?”
“Reanimation is . . . very involved. There’s a lot of equipment, a lot of people at work.”
I clear my throat. “And all of this is legal, right?”
Dr. Iverson grins. “It’s not not legal. But of course, discretion is important.”
Dr. Iverson’s pocket vibrates, and she holds up a finger to us as she accepts the call.
“Yes,” she says into the receiver. “And the room’s prepped? Good. I’m on my way.”
I steal a look at Ms. B, but she’s leaning against the hallway wall, her eyes closed, her lips pursed in a low hum.
The doctor rattles off a sequence of numbers, and before she ends the call, she’s corralling us back down the hall. “I promise you. It won’t be long now.”
80
There’s a door behind the grief specialist’s desk.
I hadn’t noticed it.
Seconds after Dr. Iverson’s apology-filled exit, this other door opens; a lean, immaculately groomed man in pressed gray pants, a stark white dress shirt, and a gray wool bow tie enters.
My first thought is he must be hella hot; Elytown is unseasonably blistering.
My next thought: everything about him feels designed, staged, like a house you were trying to sell.
His smile.
His perfectly square silver-frame glasses matching his gray eyes.
This kind of guy, anything he offers, you read the fine print twice.
He extends his hand to Ms. Barrantes, then to me: a cold, tight grip.
“I am Mr. Oklahoma.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Oklahoma,” she says, glancing at me like she wants me to exchange pleasantries.
But that’s not happening. This dude, one of those I can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong with you people. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not your real name?” I ask.
His customer-service smile doesn’t wilt the slightest. “I will be your personal reanimation liaison, Ms. Barrantes. Your case is my only assignment. As such, day or night, I am at your call. Should you require anything, I will do my level best to bring it to fruition. Should you have questions or concerns, I will work to address your inquiries. It is our expectation that this experience be the very best for Quincy. For you. And for your family. We demand of ourselves your full satisfaction.”
“It sounds . . . too good,” Ms. Barrantes says.
Mr. Oklahoma hands her a paper-thin, transparent tablet.
“This is a transfer of care authorization,” she says.
“It will allow us to move Quincy to our facility.”
She looks up. “But how do I know any of this is legit?” And for a second, I expect her to tell me to stand, say we’re leaving. But instead, her finger glides across the signature line.
“You will not regret this,” he says, in a voice that makes me wonder how long it is until we do.
79
Two years ago, my freshman biology teacher burst into the lab with too much excitement for nine a.m. and asked his students if we’d watched the hearings.
We hadn’t.
“They’re saying they can bring someone back from the dead,” he’d said.
What? How? Had they already done it? we all wanted to know.
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But they’re close, and . . .”
But he’d already lost us.
Except now, here I am.
On the verge of seeing the amazing.
But this is night and day compared to what my teacher explained that morning.
He’d said researchers were working to extend human life for a few minutes, maybe several hours. That this technology would also restore them to their prior level of health, pre-illness, pre-accident. The hope was, with more time, family and friends could make it to the bedside of their dying loved one, exchange a few lucid words before they passed.
The time could be used to sort one’s estate, to finalize last wishes.
To share passwords. To reveal secrets.
Not every case would qualify, but still—even reanimating the healthiest person seemed implausible.
But this—what the Center’s offered—is so far beyond.
And I can’t help but wonder what Ms. B and I aren’t seeing.
What are we missing?
Why did the Center choose Quincy?
What do they stand to gain?
78
Two black men in black polos and slacks slide the black bag into the black van in the black night.
The setup for an awful joke that no one should finish.
One secures the rear door, the other slides into the driver’s seat. They pull away, carrying my friend—can I call him that again?—to the Center.
“The Center for what?” I ask Mr. Oklahoma.
He frowns as if the answer’s obvious. “It’s just the C
enter.”
“You guys wanted to give your marketing team a lot to work with, I see.”
But no one laughs. A thing I don’t like about myself—when I’m uncomfortable I make crappy jokes.
“Our car arrives in four minutes,” he says, tapping his phone screen. “We have a bit of a journey ahead. I suggest taking advantage of the hospital facilities prior to departure. I will wait here.”
Ms. B steers me down a corridor. “Closest bathroom’s a one-seater. I’ll go after you.”
“You first,” I insist, and just before she slips inside, I call her name.
My throat tightens. “I think . . . I feel like maybe it’s best if I . . . if I leave you to this . . . uh . . . it feels rather . . . personal. Like a family-only thing. And I just think that maybe you’d like some privacy to . . . uh . . . reanimate your son?” I intended a statement but presented a question.
She blinks, her hazel eyes watering again. “As you know, it’s just the two of us, Quincy and me, here in Elytown. It’s just us . . . anywhere, really. I’d like you to come with me, Jamal. Unless you, or Whit, object. Have you called her?”
I shake my head, and she looks as if she might scold me, but she manages a half smile. “We should call her from the car. That is, if you’re coming. If it’s not too much.” She rubs the back of her head. “What am I saying? Of course it’s too much. You should go home. Right? You should go home to your sister. To the baby. But I’d appreciate it if . . . tell you what, I’ll use the restroom. If you’re not here when I come back out, no hard feelings?”
I nod.
“Okay,” she says, holding my eyes a second past comfortable. The piston exhales as the door closes behind her.
“Okay,” I say to no one.
Except it’s not okay. I can’t do this.
I should go.
I have to go.
But which way? Why does every hospital hallway look the same? I walk ten yards south (I think south), but that doesn’t feel familiar. I head back, but . . .
Someone’s coming, the clap of their shoes louder and louder, closer and closer. I duck inside a door marked Maintenance just as the walking stops.
The sliver of hallway light coming from under the door goes dark.
They’re here. Right outside.
I hold my breath. She’s looking for me. A couple of steps, then they stop again. It feels like forever before they leave. I wait for the loud click of the heavy exit doors, then slip back into the hallway, walking briskly in the opposite direction.
I barge into the main lobby—the purple-haired receptionist stares but says nothing.
I exit everything.
The cold night air grabs me by the throat.
I shouldn’t be there.
Q wouldn’t want me there.
A few hours ago, we were ready to end each other.
And even if by some miracle, Q wanted me there, I’m not sure I want to be.
I tap Whit’s number and bring the phone to my ear.
But it doesn’t ring.
No service.
“Hey,” a voice calls out. “Told you he was a fighter.” Q’s paramedics back-and-forthing an e-cigarette in the ambulance bay, next to a No Smoking sign. “Not gonna lie, it looked bad. But sometimes the world breaks good.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She tips her head, a reel of smoke rolling from her lips.
And then I’m dead-sprinting down the entrance ramp, hopping the median. I cut the corner too sharply, and a horn blares, tires squeal, as I nearly kiss the hood of a minivan. If it hadn’t jumped the red-painted curb, they’d be rushing me back inside the building.
“Are you freaking insane?” the driver screams, flipping me off.
I raise my hand in apology, but there’s no time. At the south exit, I spot a black car methodically negotiating the narrow lane.
I barely get my fist on its bumper as the car glides into the street.
It jerks to a stop and I walk around.
The tint on the front passenger window dissolves, Mr. Oklahoma’s silver eyes glaring through the perfectly clear glass. “There can be no more indecision, Mr. Anderson,” he says through the window. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Oklahoma turns back, his window redarkening. The locks click and I slide into the back seat next to Ms. Barrantes. She’s crying, and I’m embarrassed, and I don’t know what to say.
She squeezes my hand.
“Thank you,” she says so quietly it’s as if I merely imagined it.
77
I ask again. “Are we still in Elytown?”
Our headlights impale the darkness ahead.
This far out—with no white noise to swallow it—you hear yourself think, your smallest thought booms like a shotgun.
The world so still you wanna shake it.
When things were especially quiet, Mom held a finger to her lips, as if she’d just rocked the world to sleep. Listen, she’d say, even the bad guys nap.
Mr. Oklahoma doesn’t turn around. “We are, Jamal.”
He’d make an excellent play-by-play announcer for the end of humanity.
I bet his I love yous sound like a eulogy.
I stick my head into the front seat, but before I can are we there yet, we pull sharply off the road, and I fall back, my face smacking the door.
“You wanna use that brake next time,” I say, gravel popcorning beneath the car.
The driver taps a sequence onto the car’s center console touch screen.
Mr. Oklahoma speaks quietly into his phone.
And Ms. B, her eyes wild, scoots to the middle, leans forward to stare out the front windshield, as if she doesn’t believe what her own window’s showing her.
“Is this some sick joke?” Ms. B asks.
76
What had I expected?
A building of iridescent glass. A gleaming steel fortress.
A feat of engineering and design that auto-slackened your jaw, made you wish you’d sprung for the phone with the better camera.
An architectural beanstalk shooting from the earth.
But this?
“The GPS working out here? We miss our turn?” I ask, glancing out the rear window.
“We are where we are supposed to be,” Mr. Oklahoma says.
“Which is where?”
“The old milk factory,” Ms. B answers. “Why are we at the old milk factory?” She reaches for her door handle. Looks at me. And for the first time, she looks terrified. Maybe she’s realizing what I’m realizing. That we’re in a strange car, in the middle of night and nowhere, at some defunct dairy plant, and no one knows we’re here, or who we’re with. We don’t know where we are, who we’re with.
Maybe we’re coming out of the bring Q back at all costs spell.
Maybe it’s finally dawning on us that this promise isn’t real.
People don’t wake up from death.
And even if they could, it wouldn’t be in a room filled with milk crates.
I pull out my phone, but Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head. “There is no service here. My apologies.”
“I need to call my sister. She’s probably freaking out.”
He nods. “You can call her when we’re inside, Jamal. But we have already notified her. She is aware of the situation.”
“You call my son dying a situation?”
Mr. Oklahoma frowns. “Please forgive my poor choice of words, Ms. Barrantes. I assure you I do not take your son’s untimely death lightly. As for Whitney, Jamal, she has been fully apprised. Both her and the baby are fine.”
What the—did he just—
“How do you know my sister’s name? That she’s pregnant?”
“When on the cusp of the incredible, Jamal, we must take every precaution. We must leave nothing to chance.”
I’m not satisfied, but I know he won’t say more.
But if he spoke to Whit, then he has her number. And somehow he knows about the baby. He probab
ly knows where we live. Was he watching our house right now?
The gravel gives way to asphalt and we pull into a clearing invisible from the road.
And that’s when we see it.
The first trace of modern technology.
Running north and south, a series of bright-orange light beams spaced evenly as far as I can see in either direction, like fence posts.
Mr. Oklahoma opens the glove box, removes two lanyards, a plain white badge dangling from each. “Put these on. It is vitally important you not remove them while in the lab.”
I want to ask what happens if we do, except I’m too busy staring at what’s ahead. I wait for us to brake, to slow down as we get closer, except we actually gain speed. Ms. B and I exchange looks.
We zip through, all of us illuminated in orange, and it’s as if somehow we’ve stopped inside the lights. Like there’s an entire room inside the beams. And I swear, on either side of us, I feel like there are eyes on us.
But in the end, we pass through without so much as a chime.
“This is where thousands of cows once crossed,” Mr. Oklahoma says, randomly, I think, until I spot a rusted SLOW DOWN, COW X-ING sign.
“What happened? Why’d it shut down?” I ask.
“Weird things were happening with the cows,” Ms. B says, and we persist down the dark road in silence.
75
You know that saying, don’t judge the Center by its cover?
The inside is everything you’d expect from a facility claiming to resurrect the dead. An expansive lobby filled with soft blue light that caroms off the concrete floor. You can see clear to the top, five levels, stacks of square glass rooms.
The black woman at the front desk, her head shaved, lips lavender, greets us. “Welcome to the Center.”
Mr. Oklahoma nods. “Cassandra will escort you to our chief scientists. You already met Dr. Iverson.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“A few matters require my attention. I will find you after.”
“This way,” Cassandra says, stepping toward a glass panel. “Please, Ms. Barrantes, Jamal, follow me.”
Early Departures Page 6
