by Cat Patrick
LOCATION OF BODY: LODGED UNDER SEAT EIGHT (MIDDLE LEFT)
PRESUMED CAUSE OF DEATH: SEVERE HEAD TRAUMA (METAL OBJECT PENETRATED HEAD JUST ABOVE LEFT TEMPLE; SIGNIFICANT SUBSEQUENT BLOOD LOSS; GLASGOW COMA SCALE RATING 1 FOR VISUAL, VERBAL, MOTOR)
FIRST DOSAGE: ONE VIAL, 9:18 AM
REACTION: NONE
REPEAT DOSAGE: NONE
RECOMMENDATION: AUTOPSY TO DETERMINE DEFINITIVE CAUSE OF DEATH TO COMPARE AGAINST OTHER REACTIONS TO DRUG. TEST TISSUE AND HAIR SAMPLES FOR RESISTANT MARKERS DESPITE CLEAR INDICATORS THAT POINT TO HEAD TRAUMA AS COD. RELO PARENTS DESPITE FAILED ATTEMPT?
“Damn,” Matt says quietly, shaking his head.
“Sorry,” I say again. “I wanted to find one for someone who made it. I can’t really tell which file is for which kid.”
“What happened to her parents?” Matt asks, ignoring my apology. I swipe away the notes and open another file in Kelsey’s folder. It’s a signed oath. I close that and find the relo detail sheet: Mr. and Mrs. Stroud, who had no reason to go through a name change, now live in North Dakota. At last contact, in 2011, they were “functioning normally.”
Except that their daughter’s dead.
Matt doesn’t say anything more, so I open another folder. The first file is similar to the page of notes on Kelsey, but it’s for another bus kid, written by another agent.
CASE NUMBER: 20
NAME: NATHAN FRANCIS
AGE: 9
Presumed cause of death: Broken neck (X-ray confirmed cervical vertebrae crushed, consistent with vehicle accident; completely unresponsive)
First dosage: None
Reaction: None
Repeat dosage: None
“Damn,” Matt says again, more forcefully this time.
“I know,” I say, quickly closing the file, then tapping the air to open another. Thankfully, it’s for someone who responded to Revive: Gavin Silva, now Gavin Villarreal. I exhale loudly as I move my hands to page through details of his Revival and relocation to New York.
“I know him,” I say. “He’s super cool.”
“Oh, yeah?” Matt says weakly. I can tell he needs to hear some good news as much as, if not more than, I do.
“Yeah,” I say. “Revive worked for a lot of us. It gave us life.”
I feel like I just walked out of a haunted house: My nerves are frayed and I’m post-stress tired. I pause to regroup. Then I try to explain to Matt the pros of the Revive program.
“So, this guy, Gavin, is twenty-two now,” I say in a measured tone. “You’d like him; he’s really funny. He’s in art school and he does these insane drawings. He sent me one for my birthday last year…. It’s that one of the face, in my room?”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Anyway, Gavin’s life is way better now. Mason told me a few years ago that back in Bern, Gavin’s dad was physically abusing him. Like hitting him, but also putting out cigarettes on him.” I pause, shivering.
“That’s sick,” Matt says with a flash of anger in his eyes.
“It is,” I agree. “It’s terrible. He had it really rough. But the Revive program saved him from that.”
Matt’s eyebrows go up like he wants to hear more, so I keep talking.
“So, Gavin’s best friend was one of the ones who died. His name was Michael Dekas. Anyway, before the crash, I guess Michael’s parents started to suspect something was going on at Gavin’s house, but they could never get Gavin to fess up. Mason said they asked Gavin’s mom about it but she denied it, then didn’t let Gavin come to their house for a while.
“Anyway, then the crash happened. Michael didn’t respond at all to the drug; his parents were obviously devastated. But then when the agents went to try to Revive Gavin, they found all these burns on his body. There was no one there to claim him—his parents were in Canada, I guess—and the agents asked if any of the families there knew Gavin. The Dekases came forward, and when they saw the burns, they made a snap decision to volunteer to relocate with Gavin… as their son.”
“No way,” Matt says.
“It’s true,” I say. “The program saved Gavin’s life twice, in a way.”
“Yeah,” Matt agrees. “But you know, that’s also sort of kidnapping. It might be worse than the nun thing.”
“I guess,” I say, never having thought about it like that.
“But I still think it was the right thing to do,” Matt clarifies quickly. “I mean, how could they send a kid back to a guy who was using him as an ashtray?”
“Exactly,” I say, but it lacks conviction. Matt and I both get lost in our thoughts for a few minutes. On my mind are shades of gray. Many times, I’ve pondered the ways in which Gavin’s life is so much better now, but the one thing I haven’t considered before is his real mom, and what her circumstances were like then and now. It strikes me for the first time that the situation might not have been as morally black and white as I’ve always thought.
Maybe they should have found her and offered her a way out, too.
There’s a gnawing inside me that feels like guilt: guilt for second-guessing the program that gave me a life and a home. I move on from Gavin’s story, at least on the outside.
“There were others who really benefited from Revive, too,” I say to Matt. “I already told you how Megan’s life got better. And Tyler and Joshua Hill—they’re identical twins. Both were Revived. They live in Utah. It would have been so terrible if just one didn’t make it, but they both did. Oh, and Elizabeth Monroe’s younger sister was supposed to have been on the bus that day but wasn’t; she stayed home sick. But Elizabeth was Revived, so her sister will never have the guilt of being the lucky one. I mean, can you imagine having to live each day knowing that your sibling won’t get to…”
I’m so concerned with running from moral dilemmas and trying to defend the program that I don’t realize what I’m saying until it’s out of my mouth. But then it hits me like a sledgehammer to the heart. Shocked by my own words, I look quickly, wide-eyed, at Matt.
He’s the lucky one; Audrey isn’t.
“Oh my god, Matt,” I say. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly before moving his eyes from me to the ceiling. There’s nothing of interest up there, but he stares anyway.
“No, it isn’t.”
The room is so still, it’s frozen.
“Actually, Daisy, you’re right,” Matt says finally, sighing loudly. He pulls his gaze from the ceiling and looks at me with fire in his dark eyes. “It’s not okay that a drug like this exists and it can’t help my sister. It’s not okay at all.”
I’m not sure what to do. Anxiously, I turn back to the screen and start closing files. I hear a clock chime downstairs; my breath sounds like a windstorm.
“We can never tell Aud about this,” Matt says flatly.
“You can never tell anyone about this,” I say.
“I said I wouldn’t,” Matt snaps. “But I guess you’ll have to trust me on that.”
“I do trust you,” I say softly. “It’s just that I’ve never told anyone this stuff before. I’ve never felt close enough to anyone to even consider telling them. And it would be a huge deal if it got out. I mean, there would be riots. Everyone would want it. But not everyone could benefit from it.”
“Like Audrey,” Matt says dismally. The anger is gone as quickly as it came, and I realize that I almost prefer it to sadness. Anger is manageable; sadness is heartbreaking.
“Like Audrey,” I echo.
Even though Audrey will never be in the Revive program, I think of reading her name in a case file. Of failed attempts at bringing her back scrawled in rough handwriting. Of her time of death noted like it’s nothing.
I can’t ignore the sick feeling in my stomach right now.
This little venture of mine into the world of Revive was meant as a gesture for Matt, but all it’s done is make me question my life. Revive brought me back, but the program stole a child from his mother and didn’t tr
y other methods of saving seven people. Who knows what else might have worked on Michael Dekas or Kelsey Stroud? Maybe they needed surgery, not injections.
And beyond that, though I knew that telling Matt about Revive would be rough on him because of Audrey, I didn’t consider that it would also be rough on me. But as I sit here, that’s what weighs me down most.
Revive gave me life—it is my life—but it won’t give Audrey a second chance at hers. And for that, Matt has a right to be mad.
And so do I.
twenty
The sound of the garage door opening downstairs startles Matt and me out of our chairs. Quickly, I close everything on the computer and go through the steps to log off. We run out of the office and across the hall to my bedroom. Right as I’m wondering whether having Matt in my room is better than snooping in secret government files, someone starts coming up the stairs.
“Go sit in the beanbag,” I say. Matt bolts across the room. I sit on the floor, leaning against the bed. I take a deep breath seconds before I hear the knock on my door.
“Daisy?” Mason calls.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. The dad must have alerted him to someone else’s presence in my room—I only call Mason “Mason” at home—because when he opens the door, he’s all father. I can hear cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen downstairs; Cassie’s probably baking a casserole after seeing Matt’s car out front.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says to me. “Hello, Matt.”
Matt waves.
“Hey,” I say. “We were studying English.”
At this point, everyone in the room knows it’s a lie—there aren’t even any schoolbooks around—but Mason doesn’t know I told Matt about the program, and I’m determined to keep it that way.
“I see,” Mason says. “I hope you got a lot done, but it’s getting a little late for a school night. It’s probably about time for Matt to go home.”
I glance at the clock and realize that it’s almost nine. Six hours with Matt have passed like six minutes.
Matt starts climbing out of the beanbag and Mason turns to leave.
“Good to see you, young man,” he says. “I hope your sister is feeling better.”
“Thanks,” Matt says before Mason leaves.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “They’re home early.”
Matt crosses the room and stops about a foot from me. “It’s so weird knowing that he’s not your real dad,” he says. “He really acts like a normal father. He deserves an Oscar.”
“Wait ’til you meet my mom,” I say with a dramatic eye roll.
Matt laughs that perfect laugh of his and in that moment, despite my confusion over the program, I’m glad that I told him everything. I feel closer to him than ever.
When he leans in and kisses me this time, there’s something new between us. Instead of first-kiss-with-a-hot-guy giddiness, there’s something deeper. I can feel it in my toes and in my belly button.
And in my heart.
When Matt leaves, I log on to my regular computer and see if Megan’s online. I message her and tell her cryptically about the evening. At least the part with Matt.
Megan: You did WHAT????
Daisy: know.
Megan: M’s going to kill you.
Daisy: Maybe
Megan: Worth it?
Daisy: Yes, if nothing more than for the kiss at the end of the day.
Megan: Spill…
We chat for an hour, until Megan has to do homework and I have to update the blog. Before signing off, she writes:
Megan: Don’t forget to comment on my latest post.
Curious, I type in the address for Anything Autopsy. Megan’s post is called “The Autopsy of the Queue” and is all about the personalities people reveal while standing in line (the cutters versus the cutees and the oblivious people in the middle who should have stayed home because they always seem so surprised when the clerk shouts “NEXT!”). Megan’s position is in defense of the cutter, who is just trying to make the most of her day. I spend an hour perfecting a platform for the cutee, which is built on the idea of karma. Practice patience and be rewarded with extra butter on your popcorn; cut and find yourself in the one seat in the theater with chocolate melted into the fabric.
I post my rebuttal, then get ready for bed. When I get back to my room, there’s a text waiting from Matt.
Matt: Can you talk?
Smiling, I type back:
Daisy: Call you in five?
Matt: I’ll be waiting.
I dial in the dark. Matt picks up after the first ring.
“I thought of something on the way home,” he says instead of hi.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t get why you guys moved here,” he says. My stomach sinks. I’m not sure why the idea of telling him I’ve been Revived more than once feels so bad, but it does. I think he mistakes my nervous silence for hurt. “I mean, I’m really glad you guys moved here. I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just—”
“Oh, I know,” I interrupt. “I’m a little embarrassed to tell you why. But I guess I’ve shared a lot today, so why not put it all out there?”
“Okay…”
“I’ve died five times.”
Now Matt’s the one who’s silent.
“Are you still there?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Whoa.”
“I know,” I say, ashamed. “I mean really, it’s more like four—I had to be Revived twice after the bus crash—but technically, five vials means five deaths. After that first day… well, I’m really allergic to bees, and I guess I’m accident-prone, too.”
“No way,” Matt says. “What… I mean, what’s it like?”
“What?”
“Dying,” he says.
“Oh.”
“If you don’t mind talking about it,” he adds.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Um… I don’t really remember that much about it, to be honest.” It’s a total lie: I remember many graphic details, but I don’t want to cause Matt more pain than I already have. He might think death talk is fascinating right now, but later, when Audrey’s time comes, he’ll be haunted by my stories of being afraid and in pain.
“Oh, okay,” Matt says, sounding a little disappointed. But he changes the subject anyway. “Are you going back to school tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Audrey, too.”
“Really?” I ask, excited.
“Yep, the doctor cleared her,” Matt says happily. “Only he wants her to be with people at all times in case she has a problem, so my mom won’t let her drive to school alone. We’re going together.” Pause. “Want us to pick you up?”
I smile at how normal the conversation is now, even though Matt knows a completely abnormal thing about me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay, we’ll be there at seven twenty.”
“Awesome.”
It’s late and that’s the logical end to the conversation, but I get the feeling that Matt wants to say something more. I wait patiently, my nervousness snowballing with each passing second. Finally, he speaks.
“Daisy…”
“Uh-huh?”
“That was one freaking weird afternoon,” he observes. His tone is low, intimate. It makes goose bumps pop up on my arms.
“I know.”
“But it was good,” Matt says.
“It was?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was weird, but it was okay, because of you. Because I feel like I know you a lot better now. I feel sort of honored that you told me all that. That you showed me the secret stuff.”
“Even though…” I say, feeling like I can’t even mention Audrey’s name.
“Yeah, Daisy,” Matt says. “Even though.”
twenty-one
I can’t sleep at all, and at three am, after my third trip to the bathroom, I find myself in the dark in Mason’s office. I’m drawn to Gavin’s file like I’m addicted. I don’t want to think about it, but in a
way, I need to.
I log on with my handprint. When the prompt for the voice password appears, I tiptoe across the floor and quietly shut the office door so as not to wake Mason or Cassie. Back in the desk chair I say halcyon so low that I’m concerned the computer can’t hear me, but it does. I’m in.
I go to open Gavin’s file, but with the coding system I can’t remember which one it was. I brush my left hand over the icon for recent files and then expand the page so the details show. I sort by the time the files were last accessed and find what I’m looking for. But then I see something weird: A new folder was created yesterday. Even stranger still, though the folder is named like all the rest, it’s marked as “hidden” so that when you look in the main directory, you won’t find it unless you know it’s there.
“What’s this?” I whisper to myself, selecting the hidden folder, then the first file in it. Unlike the others, this one is typed instead of handwritten, but it’s formatted the same way. I’m nervous that it’s for another Chase—that one of the bus kids died again or something. I skim over the top and go to the “name” line, tipping my head in confusion when I see that it’s listed as “Confidential.”
A confidential name?
I read down the page and find that the drug worked: The subject was Revived and relocated to Franklin, Nevada, after the crash. Only it says “car,” not “bus,” so it was a different crash. Did one of the bus kids get in another accident?
I scroll up to the top to see which case number it is so that I can find the confidential Convert. It takes me a couple of frustrating seconds to locate it before finally I see that the file is for case number—
What?!
I suck in my breath. My hand flies to my mouth, and even though I’m alone, I murmur through my fingers: “That’s not possible.”
