I don’t care now that he left me six months ago or that I envy his confidence or that I didn’t sense his danger. I want him with me for these last six months. If he dies, then I’m really alone. I can’t face the end without him.
I run with endless, desperate energy. I pass Mother and my distress blinds me to the stitch in my side, the ache in my legs, and the burning in my lungs. My heart pounds like a miner’s hammer—pulling me forward with each beat. When I see the first shingled housetop of Nether Town, I slow.
I veer through the houses and stores until I reach the red brick hospital. People wander around outside. Someone is sobbing. My panic ebbs away into determination and forced strength. I must be prepared for anything, but can anyone prepare for tragedy?
I shove through the heavy glass door and enter a packed waiting room. Seats with worn ivory cushions line the walls and equally worn pale people fill each one. Three Enforcers in boots and cross-backed, bullet-lined, military suspenders mill among the distraught. One of them watches as I stride to the high front desk. A nurse with curly brown hair glances up from a pile of paper-thin electronic documents—electrosheets. She closes her tired eyes for a moment and rubs her temple.
“Reid Antony Blackwater, please,” I say in a firm, business-like tone. She slides two electrosheets toward me. One says, DECEASED in sharp, black letters and the other says, WOUNDED. There’s no list for uninjured survivors.
The electronic page scrolls upward as I scan the wounded list. I stop at section B. The scrolling stills.
. . . Benson, Bjork, Blade, Brown . . .
No Blackwater.
Beside each name tiny digital blood-red Numbers click. Some of the names have minutes left. Blade clicks to 000.000.00.00.00. and the name disappears from the screen. My fingers shake as I pick up the Deceased list. I scroll down too fast and almost pass the Bs. Up an inch. Blade is now there, but still no Blackwater.
“He’s not on either of these.” Relief douses me.
Mother arrives behind me, gasping for air.
“He’s not on a list,” I say. “Are you sure he was on the train?”
Mother grows pale. “Of course. Has everyone been recovered from the accident?” Her knuckles whiten, clutched on the counter.
My mind reels. “What if he’s still trapped in the train, dying?”
The nurse holds up a hand. “Everyone has been recovered, madam. The Lower Missouri Transit is a carbon-fiber train with high crash energy absorption. There is no need to panic. You are family, I assume?”
Mother and I nod in mute silence.
“Then you must know his Numbers.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m surprised at the alarm this caused. It’s as if half the families never prepared a farewell party for their deceased. How can this be a shock?”
Then it hits me like the train that never made it to our village. “Reid didn’t have his Numbers!”
The nurse’s eyes widen so much her eyelashes touch her arched penciled eyebrows. She snatches back the lists. “It is protocol to carry your Numbers at all times.” Her gaze flits to the Enforcers and back to me.
My gut tenses and I lower my voice. “I have his here, in my satchel.” I scramble in my bag, shoving aside crinkled pieces of paper and ribbons. For the first time, the Numbers are warm in my hand—a lifeline instead of a death sentence.
The nurse frowns at the Clock. “Where are your Numbers?”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I’m sure my panic-stricken face gives me away, but Mother lies like a professional. “We didn’t bring ours. We rushed from the house and ran here from Unity Village. We knew Reid needed his Numbers as soon as possible so he could receive medical care if injured.”
“It’s protocol.” The nurse squeezes her lips together and turns my Clock over in her hands. She lets out a skeptical “hmm” and mutters something sounding like “careless.”
I hold my breath.
“He may be in the Radical Ward. You’ll have to identify him before he receives services. Keep in mind his Numbers have only six months left. He’s not eligible to receive a Medibot, which means any medical assistance will be on a more natural level. Depending on his injuries, he may not be entitled to care at all.”
She leaves the desk and my blood mutates into liquid lead. What if he’s not there?
We pass through a thick metal door after the nurse opens it with a detailed hand-scan. Rows of rooms line a hallway. Some doors are propped open to show families at the bedsides of half-coherent loved ones. Some are shut with mysteries of sorrow or joy behind them.
Three hallways and two elevator rides later, we step onto a floor with a different feel: light grey walls with no doors, no windows, and no warmth. I shiver. Beds form four rows in the open floor, some with hangings, some with restraining belts, and some empty.
“This is the Radical Ward,” the nurse explains in a cool, detached voice, as if emotional response to this revolting display of care is prohibited. “The injured who have chosen to live without their Numbers are placed here until the board decides what to do with them. Often times we send them home to heal before eviction or they remain here until their Good-bye. For economical reasons, they receive no medical care.”
A groan splits the air, followed by a hoarse sob.
“You put Reid in here?” I choke. Mother walks from bed to bed, but I scan with my eyes. In the back left corner a scruffy man sits beside an occupied bed. “Father?” My voice rebounds off the walls and metal bed frames.
Father looks up and the shine of hope surges into his face. My legs propel me down the main aisle. My gaze locks on the unconscious form in the bed. I stumble and collapse on the hard straw mattress. My fingers fumble through the sheets until they find Reid’s hand. It’s stiff and covered in blood, but I clutch it to my chest.
His mouth is open and blood cakes his lips, face, and hair. A tooth is missing. Someone had the decency to fold a thick cloth over what must be a head gash. Trembling, I touch a purple bruise on his left cheekbone with my fingertips.
“I couldn’t do anything,” Father croaks. “I couldn’t do anything about his Clock.”
“I-Is he alive?” I rasp.
Mother sits with Father, more pale than I’ve ever seen her, but the nurse steps to the bedside with our Clock. “Of course he’s alive. If these are his Numbers, it seems he has a solid six months left.”
No one responds. What if he’s seconds away from death? I clutch his hand tighter. It’s cold. I stare at the thin sheet, willing it to rise and fall to indicate breathing. The nurse pries Reid’s hand from mine.
I glare at her. “What are you doing?”
She pulls from an apron pocket what looks like an electronic rubber pacifier with a needle on the end. Pressing a tiny button on the bottom, she pricks Reid’s thumb. His body twitches and I jump.
He’s alive.
“I’m sending this blood to the lab to enter him into the computer.” She holds the needle upward. “I’ll need to take his Clock as well.”
“You pricked him for blood?” I spring to my feet. High emotions, fear, and disgust at this ward don’t make a good mix. “He’s drenched in blood. You couldn’t take some of that?”
“Fresh blood is preferred.”
“You’ve allowed fresh blood to drain out of him for the past twelve hours.”
She purses her lips and places the pacifier in a steel container before tucking it in a pouch on her uniform. “I understand you are battling many emotions. According to his Numbers, he’ll survive until autumn.”
“But in what state? Weak? Sickly?” Hot tears match the heat of my temper. “What if he never wakes up and stays in a coma for the next six months?”
“I’m sorry for your distress,” she says in a soothing voice. “Sometimes it is difficult to accept the form of Good-bye a loved one will take. I will fetch the doctor an
d have Mr. Blackwater moved to a higher ward. He will provide you with an assessment of Reid’s status.”
She leaves and I slump back onto Reid’s bed. Mother and Father do not speak. Several minutes later, two men place Reid on a gurney and wheel him into the elevator. Though I’m relieved, I can’t help but wonder . . .
How many of the unconscious or injured Radicals in this ward will die painful, untreated deaths? Do their families have to adjust to the panic that comes with an injury, knowing their loved ones receive nothing but a straw mattress to soak up the free-flowing blood?
The elevator doors slide shut, blocking the Radical Ward from the sight and minds of the hospital workers—but not from me.
I will never forget.
For twelve hours, Reid was a Radical.
000.181.17.20.11
The hospital devotes twenty precious minutes to transforming Reid into a warm, colorless, octopus. Tubes and wires cling to his body like electronic intravenous birthday streamers. Mother, Father, and I observe in an ignorant stupor. When my voice resurfaces, I demand details. “What’s that beeping?”
“His heart rate.” The new, male nurse’s voice is smooth and calming, like the coffee color of his black skin. His smile elicits relief and trust. “The hospital bed contains sensors to detect his pulse.”
“Thank you for speaking to the doctor,” Mother says in a quiet voice. “We didn’t know what to do when he first denied services.”
The nurse shrugs. “We have extra beds and a recent monetary increase from the government. He didn’t have a right to deny services yet. Not with six months to Reid’s Clock.”
“What’s that tube?” I point.
“It provides fluids and nutrients.” He unwraps what looks like a pea-sized nugget of cookie dough and pushes it into Reid’s right ear canal. Before I can ask, he says, “This dissolves over the course of several hours and reports temperature changes to this screen.” He taps a black panel in the foot of the bed. “Everything is conveyed electronically.” With that, he exits the hospital room.
I feign understanding, though the acronyms and changing numbers on the panel mean nothing to me.
Numbers.
The question hangs in the air—what if Reid dies today? Tomorrow? What if this train wreck is his end? “I don’t want to say Good-bye like this.”
“How do you want to say Good-bye?” Mother asks. Her eyes turn hard. Father sits beside her, silent.
Is she angry with me? Does she think this is my fault?
I scrape my brain like a rake on a leaf-strewn lawn, trying to process her question and figure out my answer. A mental picture enters my mind—Reid and me sitting together against the outer wall of our house, chatting lightly on October seventh at one twenty-five in the afternoon, and one of us fading away in death. It would be quick, maybe even comfortable. We wouldn’t try to control our Good-bye like some do—jumping off a cliff for a last thrill or hiding in the house hoping it doesn’t happen. We’d be brave.
“It’s always been a competition between you two,” Mother says. “You can’t stand watching him travel or make friends or learn a trade. You’ve hated every birthday because you had to share it.”
I’m not sure why she’s bringing this up right now, but my blood boils. “That’s because every birthday I was invisible. Reid had ten friends over and I had none. You just squeezed my name on the cake to make me feel included.”
“What will make you feel victorious, Parvin, outliving him?”
I stop and press a hand over my heart, trying to hold in the shock. “That’s not what this is about. It’s not about winning.”
“It’s not?”
Father puts a hand on Mother’s shoulder and she turns away. I pace to the beep of Reid’s monitor. Mother holds Reid’s hand as if she hasn’t just shattered my brittle composure. Father stares into space, and I allow my thoughts to join the circus—trapezing, tumbling, and jumping at will.
Is my autobiography about winning? Am I obsessed with doing something Reid hasn’t? What caused me to sit and write every day for the past six months? What pushed me through Mother’s doubting remarks and discouragement? Determination? Rebellion? Passion?
Restlessness.
The growing urge makes me wring my hands and tap my foot every time I sit down—an urge toward movement, action. It has little to do with Reid—he’s a small factor in my purpose. While we are both alive, it’s only to await the answer to our pulsing question, Who will die? Who will die? Who will die in six months? The one left behind is evidence of successful life without a Clock. People need to know it’s possible. Radicals—registered or not—don’t need to be killed.
Despair links its fingers with mine. All my life I’ve wondered what my purpose is. Today, I realize with a twist in my gut, that all my wondering and waiting hindered me from seeking a purpose. I could have done so much more if I’d braved intentionality sooner.
I swallow my pride and sit beside Mother. After a still moment, I rest my head on her shoulder, pushing aside her hurtful words. I need her.
She takes my hand and rubs her thumb over my clenched knuckles. We stare at Reid. Father stands by us and, even in the torment, we are united—united through blood, worry, and love. What would Unity Village be like if everyone felt this way for a single day?
Everything would be different.
Everything.
In my head, I mail a spiritual ‘thank you’ card to God for this minute. He understands why I’m thankful, even if I don’t. A certain peace rests upon me, knowing I’ve invited Him into our unified clump. My fingers stray to the silver cross ring on my pinky.
Wake. I mentally whisper to Reid’s sleeping form. Please, Reid, wake. We need you. I need you.
000.181.07.55.40
Reid’s eyes find mine first. It may be luck-of-the-draw due to my close proximity, but I like to think it is intentional. I lean forward, silent. His eyes are blank, like the sheets of paper I stared at when scrawling my autobiography. My heartbeat quickens and pulses in my ears. He blinks in quick succession. After several breathless seconds, a wave of awareness, recognition, and life seeps into his brown irises. His gaze breaks from mine and sweeps the room before scanning my face.
He parts his lips and licks them before mouthing, “Parvin.”
He must have meant to say it out loud because he frowns and gives a little cough. Mother jerks awake and shakes Father out of his snore.
“My Brielle,” Reid rasps.
I release my breath. “Hey,” I say in a voice like a five-year-old. It seems appropriate at the moment.
He smiles and the window of relief opens. Mother manages to stay calm and presses the button on the black screen for the nurse. Father slumps in his chair. The black nurse returns to perform assessments and ask Reid questions. My body turns shaky and I excuse myself into the hallway.
The floor slides up to meet me, and I prop myself against a wall. Reid is okay. His speech is hoarse, he’s weak, and he still resembles a medical squid, but so far his memory is intact. He knows who I am.
“Parvin.” Mother emerges from the hospital room.
I have an abrupt desire to spout all my thoughts and fears to her, not in anger, but in overflowing desperation. “Why did God allow us to have the Clocks?”
Mother doesn’t seem surprised by my question. Perhaps she’s expected the serious questions to come now that my potential Good-bye is closer. She peeks up and down the hall before replying in a low voice. “You need to ask Him that.”
“He doesn’t talk.”
She sits beside me. “No? Then why do you wear that ring? Why do you say you believe God’s real?”
I twist my ring and bite back the generic, “I don’t know.” I can’t evade this question. I need to know the answer myself. Why do I wear the ring? Why did I tell Trevor Rain I’d changed if I’m not willing to
own up to it? Have I changed? Reid told me a year ago how important God is—how I haven’t ever truly put Him first. He was right, but he still never told me how to do that . . . or why I would want to. God’s not welcome in our village, why would I isolate myself further from my peers?
“Reid says God wants what’s best for us, but these Clocks aren’t what’s best. If they were, wouldn’t I have a better life? What’s the use in knowing how long I’ve got if it doesn’t make me accomplish anything?”
“The Clock isn’t what pushes you to action.” Mother’s voice grows gentle, which means her next words will be hard to receive. “Action is a step you must take. Whether you know your Numbers or not, look what you’ve done with the time on that Clock. You still took it for granted.”
A lump rises in my throat, pushing tears to my eyes. Mother strokes my arm. It doesn’t help.
I push myself to my feet. “Well, six months isn’t enough time for anything. I guess I missed my chance.”
As I return to Reid’s room, my thoughts stray back to God. Didn’t You want my life to have meaning? Why did You even make me? You never did anything with my life.
It feels good accusing Him for the state I’m in, but something inside nags at me. Did I ever really surrender my life to Him?
The nurse inserts something into one of Reid’s tubes and presses a purple button on the side of the bed. A light scans from the top of Reid’s pillow to the tucked-in corners around his feet. The bed releases a mechanical groan, bending upward several inches, elevating his feet, and arching beneath his knees.
“The bed adjusts according to the patient’s stiffness,” the nurse explains. “This helps keep the joints loose and contributes to better circulation, which fights against blood clots.”
Father stands and surveys the electronic screen, then bends toward the purple button. He’ll push it once the nurse leaves.
God . . . I take a deep breath. Reid says never hesitate to ask the impossible. The nurse looks into Reid’s mouth with a light and tongue depressor. If I really give You my life, could You do something with it in these next six months? Could You take it somewhere fulfilling?
A Time to Die Page 7
