by AJ Steiger
If I tried to explain the neurochemistry of memories and the ways they’re conceptually bundled together in the brain, it would probably sound like gibberish to him. So I give the best answer I can: “Because nothing is ever simple.”
“Tell me about it,” he murmurs.
What if he does choose to forget? Can I really do it? Can I go into his mind and erase myself from it, delete the neural networks that hold this conversation, this night, the sensation of my lips against his? And I wonder what else will disappear if I take away his pain. His caustic wit? His empathy, his fierce desire to protect others who’ve been hurt? Everything is woven together. Trying to extract his suffering without destroying the rest is like trying to remove the grain of sand from the center of a pearl.
“It’s your choice,” I say.
His gaze meets mine. Slowly, he pushes a loose tendril of my hair behind one ear. “It must be hard.” He cups my cheek, his palm warm and rough. “You spend so much time inside people’s heads, getting to know them. And then when it’s all over, they just walk away and forget about you, as if none of it ever happened.”
A lump fills my throat, cutting off air and voice. I choke it down. “It’s better that way,” I whisper. “Better for them.”
“But painful for you.”
We sit, just looking at each other. After a while, he averts his gaze.
My chest feels hollow. I wish I’d just kept kissing him. I wish my stupid conscience hadn’t intervened. Why does doing the right thing so often feel like doing the wrong thing?
Finally, Steven stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can sleep tonight. And I’m sick of not knowing what really happened to me. I can’t decide whether to erase my past until I know what my past is, right?” His jaw tightens. “We still have one pill left.”
A chill washes through me. “You’re not thinking about taking it now, are you?”
“Not here. I want to go to St. Mary’s and take it there.”
I stare, stunned, then shake my head. “It’s too dangerous. Too strong. We don’t know what will happen. And what difference will it make, being in St. Mary’s?”
“When we came over the hill and I saw the town, this wave of déjà vu hit me. Even if there’s nothing left in St. Mary’s, just being there might make me remember.”
“It might not even be the right St. Mary’s.”
“It is,” he says. “I knew exactly where it was when we got here.”
I search his face. “Are you sure about this?”
He stares directly into my eyes. “If we go there, we’ll find the truth. I feel it.”
I feel it, too, like a magnetic pull. And he’s right. Even if there’s nothing left in St. Mary’s, the visual cues combined with the effects of the Lucid could trigger a flood of memory. If that doesn’t bring back his past—or at least whatever’s left of it—nothing will.
Do I really want to know the truth?
Slowly, I stand. “If we’re going, we should leave now.”
“Are you sure about this?” Gracie asks us. She stands in the doorway, bundled in a wool coat.
“We’re sure,” I reply. I haven’t told her where we’re going, just that we need to leave early. That there’s something important we have to do before we cross the border.
“Well, take this.” Gracie offers us a bulging backpack. “There’s trail mix, bottled water, and a couple of heavy-duty flashlights. And a map of the border. The entrances to the tunnels are marked in blue. Of course, there’s a chance that some of them have been discovered and filled in since the map was last updated, but this will give you an idea, at least.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
Steven is pacing the yard, hands in his pockets, breath forming small white clouds in the cold air. A rooster crows. A heavy fog lies over the yard like a damp blanket.
“Is there anything else you can tell us before we go?” I ask. “Anything we should know?”
“Move as quickly as you can. Stay on guard. And don’t get caught.” She winks.
I thank her again, then we get in the car and start driving. The horizon glows with pale, ghostly fire. Steven stares out the window, faint dawn light illuminating the gray shadows beneath his eyes. Those dark circles never really seem to go away. It’s as if, after years of insomnia, they’ve sunk permanently into his skin.
The world is still and quiet, the sky thick with clouds that spit halfhearted bits of rain on the windshield. As we near the edge of the pine forest, the shadows reach out to engulf us. The morning, already dark, becomes darker. The car slows.
“Do you think we’ll be able to find St. Mary’s?” I ask.
“I know where it is,” Steven says.
Thorn Road is bumpy, the pavement cracked and pitted. When I look in the rearview mirror, I can no longer see the town, just the cool, deep green of pine trees. A pristine hush hangs over the forest. Not even the music of birdsong breaks the silence. There’s only the whisper of dead pine needles and the occasional crunch of a pinecone beneath the tires.
Steven’s fingers are tight on the wheel. “Lain?”
“Yes?”
“After this is over, if we’re both still here, and if I decide to keep my memories, will we … I mean …” He bites his lower lip, then takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “What happened back there—do you really feel that way about me?”
My pulse quickens. A memory flashes through my head—his scent, his warmth, the pressure of his lips against mine. My fingers drift up to touch my lips, tracing them.
I shouldn’t have kissed him. Not the first time, and definitely not the second. Now he’s thinking about keeping his traumatic past so he won’t have to forget me. This is exactly why relationships between Mindwalkers and clients are forbidden. Guilt rips at my heart. I’ve been irresponsible and selfish. I was so overwhelmed with everything that was happening to us, I didn’t think about the repercussions. But that’s no excuse. “Listen, I…” A lump shoulders its way into my throat. I swallow it. “I made a mistake. It’s forbidden for Mindwalkers and clients to get involved. I should have had more self-control, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I—”
“Just answer the question.”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel. I told you, it’s against the rules.”
He stares at the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Do the rules really matter at this point?”
“Yes! I can’t—” My voice wavers. I close my eyes, collecting myself. I walk through the mental training exercises, and—with a skill born of long practice—I push my feelings down below the surface of my mind, leaving my thoughts calm and clear. My eyes open, and I take a deep breath. “Patients sometimes develop strong feelings for their psychologists.” Without meaning to, I find myself slipping into a neutral, clinical tone, reciting words from my training. “It’s called transference.”
He frowns. “What?”
“It’s a subconscious redirection of emotions that often manifests as an erotic attraction. What you’re experiencing for me now is the same sort of thing.”
His shoulders stiffen. “What fresh bullshit is this?”
I continue, ignoring the remark: “It’s not me you love. It’s the idea of me. It’s what I represent to you.” I avoid looking at his expression. “Of course it’s natural for clients to bond to the person healing them, but that’s why the rules exist. It would be unethical of me to take advantage of your feelings—”
There’s a thud as he slams one fist against the dashboard, and I give a start. The car lurches to a stop. He stares straight ahead, his hands locked around the wheel. “If you want me to walk away when this is over, I’ll walk away,” he whispers hoarsely. “Tell me these feelings are wrong if you want. Tell me they’re sick. But don’t tell me they aren’t real. Don’t you dare.”
His shoulders slump. The fire dies from his eyes, and instead of furious, he just looks exhausted.
“I can’t trust my memories. I don’t even know who I am. My feelings are the only thing that I believe in. If I can’t trust them, then there’s nothing left.”
I sit frozen, not moving, not breathing.
He takes his foot off the brake. The car glides forward. Still, I don’t speak.
I’ve never felt so lost.
For years, I believed that following the rules meant doing the right thing. I don’t know what I believe anymore, and I don’t know who I trust—except Steven. Maybe that’s crazy. After all, he’s violent and unstable. He’s upended my entire life. Yet I have more faith in him now than I do in the organization I’ve spent my life serving. And it would be cowardly not to admit that. “I do care about you,” I say quietly. “More than I should. You’re much more than a client to me. More than a friend.”
There’s a slight hitch in his breathing.
My fingers curl inward, hiding in my palms. “I just—I have a lot of things I need to figure out. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. And I don’t know what’s going to happen after this is all over. I need time.”
Only the low hum of the engine breaks the silence as he stares straight ahead. Then he turns his head toward me and gives me a small, lopsided smile. There’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Fair enough.”
That smile makes me ache. I want to give him more. I want to tell him that we can be together after this—if there even is an “after this.” But I just can’t. I’m too confused.
The road’s become bumpier. The car jolts and rattles along until we reach a fork. Thorn Road continues straight ahead while a nameless dirt road branches off to the east. It’s little more than a deer path, too narrow for a car. We stop and get out. “This is it,” Steven says. “This road. It’ll take us to St. Mary’s. I’m sure of it.”
It’s still early morning, but the clouds have grown so thick, it feels like twilight. I hug myself, shivering. I look down Thorn Road, which continues due north through the forest, toward the border. Then I look down the narrow, shadowy path that leads into the unknown. Into Steven’s past. “You think it’s all right to leave the car here?” I ask.
“Well, I doubt it’ll get towed.”
I take the Gate out of the backseat and wrestle it into the backpack, along with the helmets. It’s heavy, but not unmanageable. If we take turns carrying it, we should be fine.
He starts to walk, pine needles crunching underfoot. I follow. The path is so dark, it’s like moving through a tunnel. The car recedes behind us and vanishes, swallowed up by trees and underbrush.
Thunder growls in the distance. A few raindrops kiss the back of my neck, and I glance nervously at the sky. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
Steven shakes his head. “I want to finish this.”
We keep walking. Steven starts to lag behind, puffing and wheezing. “Damn,” he says. “How are you in better shape than I am? You’re supposed to be the egghead, aren’t you?”
“I go to the gym. A healthy mind resides in a healthy body, that’s what …” I trail off, the words Father always said dying in my throat. I feel reluctant to bring up Father right now. If Steven notices the slip, he doesn’t say anything.
I quicken my pace.
Steven lets out a groan and presses a hand to his chest. “Slow down. My lungs are giving me grief.”
“If you took better care of yourself, this wouldn’t be so difficult,” I can’t resist pointing out.
“And if I had wings, I could fly there like a little birdie.” He stumbles over a root and curses. He walks into a spiderweb and picks it out of his hair, grimacing. “Nature is so overrated.”
Despite the knot in my stomach, a tiny smile tugs at my lips.
The wind has picked up, and the trees sway ominously, but the rain still holds off. I stop, staring ahead. “I think I see it.”
“Where?”
“There.” I point to a dim shape looming through the trees. As we draw nearer, the shape coalesces into a castle-like brick building with barred windows, surrounded by an empty courtyard and a crumbling brick wall. A pair of iron gates hang from the wall by their hinges, rusted and creaking faintly in the wind, and a weed-choked path leads up to the main doors.
“Looks like the set of a horror movie,” Steven remarks.
“Well, it’s an abandoned mental institution. Creepiness sort of goes with the territory.”
“Wonder if we’ll meet any ghosts.”
“Maybe.” We’ve been taking turns wearing the backpack. I have it now, and its weight is comforting against my back. But a heavy, cold layer of dread has settled into my stomach like cement. “Ready?”
Steven gives me a strained smile. “No. But I already made up my mind. I’m going in there.”
I stretch out a hand to him. He takes it, and we wind our fingers together. His hand is warm. An anchor to cling to.
We walk through the gates, down the path toward St. Mary’s. Bits of stone crunch underfoot. Over the years, the forest has climbed over the wall and into the courtyard, and a dense carpet of autumn-brown bushes covers everything. I try to imagine what the place might have looked like in its heyday. Maybe there were gardens. Maybe the patients worked out here, clad in shapeless white uniforms, picking tomatoes or apples, their movements hindered by the chains on their ankles. They still used chains in those days.
I think of the Typing system, the cameras, the constant, looming threat of reclassification. We still have chains, I realize—we all do. They’re just less visible now.
Thunder rumbles fitfully in the distance as we approach the main doors. They are closed, but the wood is so ancient and rotted it looks like it would crumble apart at a touch. A heavy, rusted iron padlock hangs from a chain. Steven kicks the lock, and it drops to the ground with a thud, like a piece of overripe fruit.
He pushes the doors, and they creak open, revealing a wide hall. Hazy gray sunlight, not quite bright enough to pierce the shadows, shines through holes in the ceiling. At the end of the hall, on a pedestal, stands a statue of a robed figure with its arms outstretched, lit by a beam from above.
I pull the two flashlights from my backpack and hand one to Steven. I flick mine on, and the bright yellow beam cuts through the gloom. “Ready?”
Steven turns on his own flashlight and nods. We walk forward. Dry leaves rustle under our feet, leaves that have found their way in through the gaps in the ceiling. When I look up, directing my flashlight into the rafters, I see crows nesting there. Startled, they caw and flap their wings. A few fly up through the gaps, into the charcoal sky. I sweep the beam across the wall to our left and over a row of doors. Some are shut, others hang half open. When I shine the light in the doors, I see only empty rooms: a few naked bed frames, nothing more.
“Well, it certainly looks deserted.” My voice sounds too loud and somehow profane in the deep, oppressive stillness.
Maybe there’s nothing here, after all. Maybe this is a waste of time.
The crows peer down at me, and the wind howls faintly outside.
I consider myself a reasonable person, not given to flights of fancy or superstition. But I’ve always had a dim sense of things that lurk outside human comprehension. Sometimes, intuition—that lightning-swift subconscious computer, honed through millions of years of evolution—can sniff out clues even when the greater picture remains beyond the mind’s reach. And this place makes my intuition tingle and electricity dance beneath my skin. Something happened here; that much I’m sure of. Something terrible.
I realize Steven hasn’t replied. He stands motionless, staring at the statue at the end of the hall. When my thumb brushes over his wrist, I feel his pulse drumming just below the surface, hard and fast. “Steven?”
He shakes his head, as if stirring himself from a trance, and exhales a shuddering breath. “So, are we going to do this or what?”
I dig around in my pocket, fish out the compact, and flip it open. The dragon pill rolls around inside. Steven plucks it out, but doesn’t take it—j
ust looks at it, his expression grim.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.
He curls a fist tight around the pill. “Don’t start saying stuff like that,” he says. “I’ll lose my nerve.” He flashes me a quick smile, though his complexion is wax-white.
I hesitate, looking up into his eyes. And I’m struck, again, by how very strong he is. The horrors he’s endured would have shattered most people, yet he’s still alive, still moving forward, facing the nightmares again and again. That’s the thing most people don’t understand about trauma—it doesn’t stop after it’s over. It lives on inside, day after day, year after year. The broken fragments of his mind are held together with sheer, stubborn willpower.
I reach up to touch his cheek. “No matter what happens, I’ll be here.”
He closes his eyes briefly, as if savoring the touch, and lays his hand over mine. “Damned if I know why,” he says quietly. “You could do a lot better, you know.”
I wish I could find the words that will make him understand his own worth. Maybe I could show him. For a moment, I find myself leaning forward. It would be so easy.
“What are you thinking right now?” he asks, voice soft and husky.
I swallow, heart hammering. “That I want to kiss you. But I shouldn’t. I mean—” I let out a weak laugh. “I just got done telling you that I need to wait and figure things out.”
He slides his fingers into my hair, and a warm shiver runs through me. He holds my head in place, searching my face, his gaze lingering on each feature. He leans down until I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips. Our eyes are so close together, I can’t focus. I wait, holding my breath—and then he pulls back, slowly, as if it takes an effort. His hand drops away from my head.
I want to cry out in protest.
“As soon as you’ve figured things out,” he says, “let me know.”
The space between us suddenly feels much wider, and the warmth in my chest goes cold. I’m the one who wanted to wait, I remind myself. He’s respecting my wishes. But it still feels like rejection.
“Well,” he says, “here goes nothing.” He tosses the pill into his mouth and swallows it.
