KJ clears his throat. “We should go,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, standing so quickly my thigh collides with the edge of the table. We busy ourselves scraping our plates into the compost before heading for the stairs. KJ takes them two at a time, leaving me to scramble to keep up.
Charlie fills in the sign-out book and attaches our leashes. I find the routine comforting. I’m still panting a little, both because of our brisk stair climb and because my chest feels like it’s wrapped in a straitjacket. Maybe I should have taken Shannon after all. It would make the day a lot more relaxing.
Outside, it’s a typical Portland fall afternoon, wet without actually raining. The skies are gray, and the air smells like damp concrete. A protester stands on the steps holding a placard that reads My times are in Your hand (Psalms 31:15). When he sees the Center door open, he lowers his sign like a shield. Charlie runs interference by telling the guy to beat it before KJ and I walk past. We turn the corner, jackets covering our leashed wrists, and blend into the rest of the Monday afternoon crowd.
Silence builds between us, as tangible as the moisture seeping into our clothes. My expectations for our afternoon, so high when Yolly offered the passes, sink to match the dreary weather. I’ve ruined our friendship. KJ will never forgive me for all the lies I told him plus being so mean that day in the clinic. He only said he’d come with me because he would never be rude to a dying girl in front of her friends. He’d rather be back at the Center with Shannon.
I’m so sunk in my own head I don’t even notice KJ has stopped in front of me until I hit my forehead against his chest.
“I have to tell you this,” he says.
I step back and face him. His lips are pursed, eyes darting everywhere except at me. I slip my hands in my pockets, tightening my fingers into fists. This is it. The point where he tells me he never wants to hang out with me again.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” KJ says. “You were right—it’s your choice what you do with your life. If you want to track down Sikes, that’s OK. I just want us to be friends again.”
The gray afternoon grows brighter. KJ is finally meeting my eyes. His are dark, as familiar to me as my own, but the expression filling them is brand new. There’s pain there, and regret. For an instant, I imagine reaching out, placing my bare fingers against his neck, the two of us escaping into a freeze, that time that doesn’t really exist.
KJ holds out his hand. “Friends?” he asks.
I brush hair off my damp forehead, forcing the fantasy back down where it belongs, deep in the land of lost opportunities and impossible dreams.
“Friends,” I agree, taking his hand.
KJ tightens his fingers, then playfully twists my arm until he’s pulled it behind my back.
“Then, as your friend, I demand that we go to Powell’s Bookstore.”
The unexpected move makes me laugh, which is probably why he’s doing it. I squirm from his grasp and force myself to match his casual tone.
“OK, OK, you win,” I say, as we start down the sidewalk again. “But why Powell’s?”
“I think we need to do some research.”
“Most people go to libraries to do research.”
“Powell’s is closer. And they have more books.”
My sneaker catches on a crack in the pavement. I know KJ well enough to guess what he’s after: he wants to look up information about time sickness and my new “rare” condition. My heart starts pumping much faster than our walk deserves.
KJ frowns at me. “Come on, Alex, don’t you want to know?”
“I do. I’m just …” I adjust the leash through my jacket’s sleeve. “Scared. It’s like Jack said, if you knew someone could tell you when you’re going to die, would you want to know?”
KJ shakes his head.
“It’s not like that at all. This is a disease. The more we know, the better we can fight it. Like, if we only did short freezes, would we live longer than if we held long ones? Or maybe we should be freezing all the time, that the sickness hits when we’re not using our skills and all that time energy gets bottled up inside somehow.”
His speech is so classic KJ—the logical thinker searching for a strategy to make the situation better—that I have to smile.
“You’d think Dr. Barnard would already know that stuff.”
“He might not care. I mean, yeah, he monitors our chronotin levels to keep us alive, but what difference does it make to him if we die a couple months early?”
I wrap a strand of my hair around my finger. KJ is asking good questions, but my current state of health is complicated by the medication Ross is giving me—the one I promised I wouldn’t talk about. I cast a sidelong look at KJ. The sight of him loping along beside me fills me with a happiness that’s almost as potent as catching Sikes. I don’t want to lose him again. He was so upset that I’m letting Ross hide my blood tests, he might give up on me completely if I tell him about the meds.
I push the secret aside, and instead share with KJ what I can. In a rush, I pour out everything I learned from my investigation into the clinic files: Calvin’s strange chronotin readings, the varying “normal” ranges each of us seems to have, even the hints Jack shared that Dr. Barnard might be using us for his own research. By the time we reach Powell’s, KJ’s forehead is laced with frown lines. I, however, am feeling lighter than I have in days.
Powell’s, Portland’s famous three-story, full-city-block bookstore, welcomes us into its bright warmth. The usual eclectic mix of people wanders the aisles, eyes slightly glazed as they scan the overstuffed twelve-foot shelves. The air carries the musk of ink and old paper mixed with the scent of coffee drifting from the in-store café.
KJ marches off through the color-coded rooms, past the green of new arrivals and up the stairs into purple, home to the medical books. I follow him as he moves down an aisle to stop squarely in front of the section with books about spinners. I scan the row from left to right. The books in the health section aren’t as popular as fiction, and at the moment there’s no one here. I still lower my voice.
“What are we looking for?”
“Chronotin levels,” KJ says, handing me a particularly dense looking medical textbook. “What’s normal, what isn’t, and any mention of rare mutations.”
I flip over the volume in my hands. It’s a hardback, dark blue, with the title printed in gold. Translational Research Methods for Chronotin Usage: A Focus on Early Phase Clinical Studies. KJ slides another book from the shelf. It’s thinner than mine, though with an equally mind-numbing title: Chronotin Levels in Adolescence. We both sit on the floor and start reading.
Time crawls by, the minutes, and my frustration, piling up with the books stacked around us. We share everything we can find, but between our lack of scientific training and the density of the texts, we’re not getting much. At 1:45, I toss Aclisote: A Treatise on Chronotin Suppression onto the floor and roll my shoulders.
“Anything new?” KJ asks.
I shake my head. “Just more of the same. Higher chronotin levels—which they’re saying is anything that averages over 170—equates with earlier death rates, as well as erratic behavior and more intense bouts of time sickness.”
“This one says the opposite.” KJ holds up the book in his hands. “These guys did a study that showed a correlation between time sickness and deeply suppressed levels of chronotin.”
“What’s a suppressed level?” I ask.
“Under 150.”
I kick at one of the abandoned medical texts, sending the heavy tome skittering across the floor.
“Calvin’s levels were both too high and too low,” I say. “So which one triggered his illness? Did Barnard mean for Calvin’s chronotin levels to drop so dramatically when he raised his Aclisote? Or did he set it up on purpose as some kind of test?”
“Maybe, once you get sick, the way you react to Aclisote isn’t predictable. I read in a science journal once about—”
“Shhh,” I say
, holding up my hand. There’s a muffled announcement winding down from an overhead speaker.
… please come to the customer service desk in the gold room. You have a message.
“What?” KJ asks.
“I think they said my name.”
KJ tips his head, but the intercom has stopped squawking.
“Couldn’t be,” he says. “No one knows we’re here.”
I touch the back of my neck, brushing my fingers across the tiny bump that marks the tracker.
“The Sick does,” I say. “Something important must have come up.”
I’m on my feet, books tumbling from my lap. The only reason I can think that the Center would call me is that Ross needs me on a mission. The mission.
“I’ll just go check,” I say. KJ starts to protest but I scurry away before he manages a question. The peace between us still feels tenuous; I don’t want to mess it up by mentioning missions unless I have to.
The customer service desk is at the end of a wall of books. The man sitting at it has greasy hair and an intricate dragon tattoo that snakes up his arm and under the sleeve of his black T-shirt.
“Hi.” I pull on my ponytail. “I’m Alexandra Manning. Did you page me?”
The man peers up at me from under his bangs, eyes wary.
“Are you a spinner?” he asks.
I jump. “What?”
“The guy said he was calling from the CIC.” Tattoo Man’s mouth twists. “They don’t let spinners just run around freely do they?”
I’m tempted to tell him spinners wander the city all the time but my irritation is dampened by fear he’ll make a scene. I wrap my hand around the leash on my left wrist. The rain jacket covering it feels like flimsy coverage.
“No,” I say. “I … work there. Volunteer. It’s a school project.”
The man leans forward. “Really? Isn’t it creepy?”
“Not really.” I don’t smile. “What’s the message?”
He rummages through some papers scattered on his desk and hands me a hot-pink sticky note with a phone number scrawled on it. I don’t recognize it, which isn’t surprising. I don’t know anyone’s phone number.
“Did the caller say who he was?” I ask.
Tattoo Man shrugs. “He just said it was important.” He nods at a phone set on the edge of the counter. “You can use that if you need to.”
I dial quickly.
“Crime Investigation Center,” a voice answers. I nearly drop the phone.
“Jack?”
“Hey, Alex. You got my message.”
“What’s going on?” I turn my body away from Tattoo Man and lower my voice. “Does Ross need me?”
“Ross? No, Barnard does. His computer crashed and he wants KJ back at the Sick ASAP.”
“We have to leave now? But we have leave for another forty-five minutes.”
“KJ has to go back now. You have to run an errand for Dr. B.”
“By myself?” I glance over my shoulder. Tattoo Man is tapping something into a laptop on the desk but by the slow way his fingers are moving I’m pretty sure he’s mostly listening to my conversation. I stretch the phone as far as I can and wrap my hand around the mouthpiece.
“We’re not allowed,” I whisper.
“You are when the good doctor tells you to. He sends me out on errands by myself all the time.”
“He does?” I say, forgetting to keep my voice down.
Tattoo Man gives up his pretense. He props his chin in his hands, head swiveled in my direction. I scowl at him.
“Hey,” Jack says, “I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.”
“No, you don’t,” I snap into the receiver. Jack laughs.
“True,” he says. “But you do, and if you come back without doing his errand, Dr. B will be pissed.”
Tattoo Man’s eyes narrow. I try and think what my side of the conversation sounds like—have I said anything that would make him suspect I’m a spinner?
“What does he want me to do?” I ask Jack.
“A guy named James Sidell called to say he has a plaque ready for tonight’s agent meeting. It’s for Ross for that bomb scare thing you guys rewound the other day. Dr. B didn’t know anyone had ordered it and he doesn’t have time to pick it up, so he wants you to go get it.”
My hand tightens around the phone. This whole story is so strange it makes me wonder if something else is going on. Did Ross arrange for me to have a pass as a cover so we could go out on another secret mission together? He could have called in the plaque order himself so we’d have a place to meet.
“Hello?” Jack’s voice jolts me back to my surroundings. “You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I grab a pen from the counter. “Where do I go?”
I scribble the address on the bottom of the sticky note and slip it in my pocket. I’ve just hung up when KJ emerges from a nearby aisle.
“So you really did have a message?” he asks.
Tattoo Man looks expectant. I drag KJ away from the counter before repeating my conversation with Jack, without adding my suspicion that it’s all a cover. It will be better if KJ goes back without knowing anything. KJ’s eyebrows climb his forehead as I talk, rising until they disappear under his floppy bangs.
“Barnard wants us to separate?” he asks.
“Jack says Barnard sends him out alone all the time.”
“Are you sure he’s not just messing with you?”
“I don’t know.” I replay the phone call in my head. I can’t really remember the subtleties of Jack’s tone. I’d been so distracted, first by Tattoo Man and then by my brain wave, that I’d mostly been thinking about how quickly I could hang up.
“He sounded serious,” I decide. “I mean, serious for Jack.”
KJ looks skeptical.
“Something about this feels off,” he says. “Maybe I should go with you.”
I shake my head. I can hardly bring KJ along if it turns out to be a mission—not when I promised Ross I wouldn’t tell anyone about my new skills.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Besides, Jack said Barnard’s freaking out about his computer. Go do your magic and maybe he’ll reward you with another pass. We’ll need it if we want to do more research.”
KJ argues with me all the way through the store. I finally get rid of him by reminding him he has to buy Shannon a present. We part ways in the orange room—me heading out to the street, KJ scanning the store for something he can bring back. I feel bad about not telling him everything, but the glimmer of guilt is buried under my excitement at the possibility of getting closer to Sikes.
The weather has deteriorated from damp to drizzly. Even though my walk is only a few blocks, by the time I find the right address my jeans are so wet they stick to my legs. My destination turns out to be a squat one-story building, marooned on a corner between a self-pay parking lot and a warehouse offering doggy day care. Dust-colored stucco coats the outside walls. To my surprise, it really is a trophy shop. The sign over the door reads Just Rewards, and decals plastered on the large windows advertise sports trophies and garish plaques. Behind them, blinds cover all but the top few inches of glass.
Muffled barks from the neighboring business mingle with the hum of passing cars. I twist the doorknob and push the door open. Stuffy air, dim as the blinded windows promised, greets me when I step inside. Display tables fill the main part of the room, showcasing the store’s wares: athletic figures waving baseball bats, round medallions like wannabe Olympic medals, and framed monstrosities with room for full paragraphs of accolades. I suspect business isn’t going well. All the merchandise needs a good dusting.
“Hello?” I call.
A woman flipping through a magazine at the front counter raises her head with a nervous start.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m looking for …” I check the note, “Mr. Sidell.”
The woman’s face pales. She’s middle-aged, with no makeup and graying hair hanging loose just p
ast her shoulders. Her skin has the papery texture of a heavy smoker, and even in the half light I can see circles beneath her eyes.
“You’re Alexandra Manning?”
“Yeah.” I take a step closer, doubt gnawing at the edges of my excitement. “Is Mr. Ross here?”
“Who?”
The woman is watching me like I’m one of the dogs from next door and she’s trying to decide if I’ll bite. I crumple the note in my pocket. I guess I was wrong. Barnard really did send me on an errand.
“You have a plaque for me,” I say.
The woman lets loose a phlegmy cough before dragging herself to her feet.
“Back here,” she says, pushing open a door behind her. “Mr. Sidell is waiting for you.”
The space behind the door is even darker than the poorly lit showroom. I squint into it, a trickle of unease replacing my earlier eagerness. This situation is starting to feel really weird. I wish I had let KJ come with me—then I’d be walking in there with a six-foot ally instead of just this tired-looking spinner-hater.
I shrug off my regrets and follow the woman into a workshop lined with tables and benches. One table is heaped with a stack of unfinished plaques; another holds a pile of soccer trophies, spilling out of a tipped-over cardboard box. The overhead lights buzz loudly in the deserted room.
The woman gestures toward a door at the back corner.
“He’s in his office.”
She doesn’t offer to walk with me and cringes when I pass her. I stomp my way across the jumbled space, hoping against hope that Mr. Sidell isn’t as narrow-minded as his staff. I can’t believe Barnard cut short my fleeting hours of freedom with an errand as unpleasant as this one.
I reach the office and knock so hard the door rattles in its frame.
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