Torn Page 14

  “She’s special,” Cole said softly, his throat tight. Vera reached out and put a hand on his.

  “Yeah, she is,” she agreed. “She’s lucky to have you. And we’ll all be together again soon!” Cole blinked twice, trying not to let tears well in his eyes. Vera had no idea what he was feeling. She was trying to make the best of it by existing in a fantasyland.

  “Vera,” he started, half afraid of what he was about to say. “It’s been over three months now. I don’t feel like I do have her.” He stopped, drawing in a breath, his throat tightening. “She thinks I’m dead. She’d have known that if I died, I’d want her to move on.” He looked away, swallowing hard. Vera pushed herself forward to touch his elbow.

  “You’re right,” she told him. “She’d have known that. But she wouldn’t have been able to do it. Listen to me, Cole.” She put a hand to his face, forcing him to look at her. Her own chocolate-brown eyes were wide and earnest. “Davis never had a love like you. None of us did. When you came along, you changed her. Everything is different now. Davis is a good person, a loyal one. She’s not someone who forgets. She’s yours, Cole. She always was.”

  Vera’s words pushed him to tears. He pulled her close to him. Vera’s words reminded him that what he and Davis had shared was bigger than anything time or distance could break. It was just what he’d needed to hear in his most vulnerable moment.

  “Thank you,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. He didn’t even care anymore whether she saw him cry.

  “Let’s get you some tea,” she suggested, pushing back her blanket and standing up before he could stop her.

  He moved to help her, but she shook him off. Still, she swayed a little on her feet. Cole frowned, worried.

  She moved to a tiny pantry mounted on the wall, each step slow and deliberate.

  “Vera,” he said. “Just let me get it.” He moved to help her, but she was already reaching for the jar of honey. She’d just closed her palm around it when she stumbled. Cole saw her eyes roll back in her head, and she fainted. Cole caught her just in time, but the jar crashed to the floor and shattered into a dozen sticky shards.

  Cole lifted her back into bed with some effort, his heart racing. He wet a cloth and dabbed at her forehead, wondering where the hell Worsley was and why he wasn’t there watching her, when clearly she needed it. What was really going on here? He wiped up the mess, careful to get every minute shard of glass off the floor, as she lay there.

  Three or four minutes later, Vera’s eyes fluttered open. Cole fed her sips of cold water, allowing her to get her bearings.

  “How often does this happen?” he asked, his voice serious.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, her voice a little curt. “I told you, I’m a million times better. This is the first time I ever fainted. It’s probably just because I’m lying down so much; I’m not used to standing. Is everything okay? Did I fall on my back or my stomach? The baby is kicking, but.…”

  “I caught you,” Cole assured her. “There was no impact.” Still. What if he hadn’t caught her? What if she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom or make her own tea—or anything, really—and no one was there to catch her? His blood boiled, and he was near panic. He’d never forgive himself if Davis’s best friend was injured, and it was entirely preventable. But why wasn’t she improving? She didn’t seem better at all. All of a sudden, the feeling that had come over him at the pond—the one that had caused him to break down in front of Mari—was returning full throttle.

  “Worsley should be back soon,” Vera told him, once again shifting, becoming more urgent, more manic. Her eyes wouldn’t stay still. “Would you like to eat breakfast with us?” she asked. “He makes me eggs or pancakes every morning. It’s so generous. He says eggs are difficult to get, but the baby needs protein.”

  “Vera—” Cole started, but Vera cut him off.

  “I’m so glad she found you,” she told him. “She’s always deserved the best. And now she’s found it.”

  He leaned toward her, wrapping her in another quick hug.

  As he pulled away, Vera broke into a series of hacking coughs.

  “Good God,” Cole said.

  She coughed harder, phlegmy and loud, and Cole went to get a rag from Worsley’s supply of sterile equipment to wipe her mouth. When he returned, she was trembling all over, and there was blood covering the front of her tunic and splattered on her chin.

  “Vera!” he gasped.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Really, Cole. It barely ever happens. You should just go.” But her eyes were rolled slightly back in her head and her words were slurred. She coughed again into the rag he held against her mouth, and sure enough, when he pulled it back it was dotted with blood.

  “I’m just going to sleep, Cole,” she said, leaning her head back on the pillow. “I’m so tired. But I can’t wait for everything. The party, the fun. We’ll give it just a few more weeks. Just a few more weeks and it’ll all be over.”

  Cole didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sure what she was anticipating—whether it was delirium or some foresight on her part that she had just a few more weeks left in her. When she fell asleep, he took her pulse. It was strong, but her breathing was shallow. He sat by her bedside, waiting for Worsley to return.

  He tried to swallow back the terror in his throat, but found that it was impossible.

  13

  DAVIS

  Davis beat at a rug with a large wooden broom, watching clouds of dust pour out of it. These were the rugs the people of the commune used in their homes—a far cry from the designer area rugs they’d had steam cleaned each week back in Columbus. Davis didn’t mind the physical act of beating dust from the rugs, though. It was unfamiliar, and her arms ached, but it felt good to take out all her frustrations that way.

  “Must be thinking of someone you wanna give it to pretty good,” said May, one of the older women at the commune. Davis smiled, wishing May knew even half the truth: how the feeling of powerlessness was eating away at her. They were still waiting to hear back from one of Mercer’s contacts in Durham, and every hour that passed with no word was an hour lost, one that brought even greater uncertainty.

  “You could say that,” was all she said. She was trying her hardest, but she was still lagging behind Kira, a girl of about fourteen.

  “This is what you do,” Kira told her, repositioning the broom so the handled side—not the side with the bristles—made contact with the rug. “I know it seems weird, because you cover less space, but actually you get more oomph this way.”

  “Thanks,” Davis told her gratefully. They had to get through a dozen rugs before the end of the day, because there was more work to be done tomorrow. Lots of it, Kira had informed her. Davis had never had to work hard in her life—at least at manual labor—and she knew it showed. Still, she knew how to work hard generally, like in ballet, and she could tell the others sensed it. Because of that, they were kind and patient. Or maybe they were just kind and patient overall, she realized.

  Davis glanced over at Mercer, who had just finished building a fire and was now strumming a song on one of the Neithers’ guitars. She smiled as a little girl with blonde pigtails, Madeleine, sidled up to him and nudged her way under his arm, his rich voice filling the space between them. He plucked a few chords, then guided the little girl’s fingers on top of his own, allowing her to control the melody. She giggled loudly, tossing her head back. The gesture reminded Davis of Fia, and her chest tightened. Mercer looked down at the girl, laughing a little at her enthusiasm.

  Seeing him with her ignited a wave of emotions that Davis had been fighting to suppress. She still felt tingly and light from their kiss. Over the course of the past day, it had wormed its way into her brain at random times; and now, as he sang to the little girl, rasping just a little and gently moving her smaller fingers along with his, Davis couldn’t ignore the familiar fluttering in her heart. The kiss had been intense; gentle and somehow endless. It had taken her by
surprise—Mercer was her friend, and all of a sudden, he was something more.

  But he wasn’t Cole. When she thought of Cole, the tenderness she felt for Mercer dissipated, giving way to guilt and confusion. Cole was dead, and she still hadn’t found a way to tell his family how much he had meant to her. As far as they knew, Cole and Davis had never met, had never fallen in love. He was fading in her memories, and she felt wholly disconnected from everything they had shared.

  Every time she looked Mercer’s way and thought about their kiss, she felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal to Cole’s memory. Davis resolved to push any romantic feelings aside—she needed to focus on their mission. Still, she couldn’t help but take one quick glance at Mercer and the little girl. The little girl titled her head back, singing at full volume in duet with Mercer. It was a song Davis knew well, an old folk tune her father had sung to her as a child.

  “Every day with you,” Davis sang, moving toward them. Mercer met her eyes and smiled. “Every day with you is like a freight train without its brakes.”

  Three hours later, Davis heard a knock on the door to the laundry room, where she was working with two other women and a friendly man who painted watercolors. “I’d love to make you a miniature,” he was saying when Mercer walked in. Mercer had told the others at the commune that he and Davis were just passing by, hoping to relocate from Columbus to Durham. It was a lie, but a necessary one, and one the people hadn’t questioned. They seemed comfortable with ambiguity here. Had Mercer and Davis admitted they’d escaped from TOR-N, however, it could have been a different story. They might have been afraid.

  The painter smiled at Davis as he folded a stack of T-shirts. Mercer strode into the room, his face alight with excitement, and said a quick hello to the man before breaking into their conversation.

  “What is it?” Davis asked.

  “Come outside,” he whispered. He grabbed her hands, pulling her into the shadows of the commune. Davis glanced back at Hugh, the painter, who gave her a small wave good-bye.

  It was past midnight, and most of the commune was already in bed. Just a few lights shone from within the modest cabin walls. “I sent a message out with Jefferson late yesterday,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “He’s one of the most reliable sympathizers. He was heading to the border of Durham under the guise of meeting up with a guy who was passing him some supplies for the commune. His guy went to school with me, knows my friend Jan. Anyway, he went back again today, and Jan sent a message back.” Mercer was so excited, she could barely understand him. “I told you coming here would work. I told you they could get a message across.”

  “What did she say? What did your message say?” Davis had to stop herself from biting her nails.

  “Jan’s dad has connections in Durham,” Mercer explained. “He’s the most powerful person I can think of to help us. I just wanted to run it by Jan rather than showing up and expecting it. But she just sent over the okay. We can leave tonight and be there by morning.” He seemed charged; he was pacing back and forth. It was infectious. Davis felt an overwhelming contradiction of emotions—the eager anticipation she used to feel the night before her birthday as a kid, mixed with the dread she’d felt while lining up for the Physical Aptitudes.

  “Okay,” she said, taking a huge breath. “Let’s do it.”

  Five minutes later they were gathering their things and saying their good-byes. Davis stooped to hug Madeleine, who handed Mercer a picture she’d drawn of him playing his guitar, with her in stick-figure form next to him. Mercer smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Stay in touch,” said Madeleine’s father. “This one’s become awfully fond of you.”

  “We’ll be back,” Davis promised, belatedly surprised at her own use of we. She and Mercer weren’t a “we.” Were they? Every little admission to her feelings for Mercer shook her up. His voice. The way he kissed little Madeleine. His way of soothing Davis when she felt panicked, simply by placing a hand on her forearm, as he did now.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of Durham—walking much of the way and hopping aboard a train illegally for a full day, stowing away with the luggage—Davis’s legs burned with exertion and her hair was stringy and filthy. She barely felt it, though, when Mercer reached down for her from the top of a craggy drop-off, hoisting her over its jagged edge to the top of a hill overlooking a valley city. Before them spread Durham, startling Davis with its beauty.

  She couldn’t help sounding awestruck. “It looks a little like Columbus from the monorail … except bigger.” Skyscrapers rose toward the sky and stretched in seemingly endless rows before them. In the fog of the night, their lines were blurred, and their windows resembled a sea of glittering eyes. Davis’s pulse accelerated. It wasn’t home, but it felt close enough to Columbus to move her.

  Light projections crisscrossed above the buildings, heralding theater productions and broadcasting the faces of movie stars. It was a cluster of beautiful chaos. Davis felt more alive than she had in months.

  “There are the primary research facilities,” Mercer told her, pointing out three behemoth buildings with tall, red-lit spires. They were too far away to see people, but in a city like this, Davis imagined the streets would be teeming. “That’s where our answers are.”

  “It’s stunning,” Davis breathed.

  “It’s the best city on earth,” Mercer said quietly.

  “Only ’cause you haven’t seen Columbus,” Davis teased.

  She reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. She knew what it was like to miss home. “So what are we waiting for?”

  Neither of them talked about what would happen when they found Dr. Hassman and delivered to him the samples he needed. Neither of them mentioned the kiss, or what it meant, or what it would mean to be separated again. But the way Mercer looked at her just then, his eyes full of feeling, she knew it meant a lot. It would be painful for them both.

  As they drew closer, Davis felt her anxiety steadily increasing. Mercer, on the other hand, was walking several paces ahead of her, more eager than ever.

  The sight of a big city triggered flashbacks of the last time she was in Columbus, fleeing from patrolmen. This situation—sneaking into another heavily patrolled city—was no safer. “Are you sure Jan’s going to help us?” she asked, suddenly doubtful. The thought of getting thrown back in quarantine—or worse—put her nerves on edge. She fought against her anxiety, taking a deep breath and standing tall. She had to fake confidence, even if she didn’t feel any. This was happening, and she needed to be strong.

  Mercer casually slung an arm around her shoulders, rubbing them to keep her warm. “I’m positive,” he said. “She’s getting us IDs. Once we’re past the checkpoint, we’re fine. I spent my whole life here as a Neither; both of us still pass for Priors. Getting in is the hardest part, and we’ve got that covered.” Davis nodded, but his words didn’t entirely vanquish the heady doubt she felt. “We’re picking them up just south of Checkpoint A. They’re going to be inside an old outhouse just outside the city border. If they’re not there, we’ll know something happened. We just turn around. If they’re there, we’re clear. It’s less than a mile from here,” he told her, lifting her chin with a finger. “Hang in there for a little while longer.”

  They approached the outhouse quietly. Davis’s heart was in her throat as Mercer reached into its rusted exterior, withdrawing a thin white envelope and a change of clothes for each of them. He wrinkled his nose as he did. Davis grimaced. She didn’t want to know what the inside of an ancient outhouse looked like, but she gratefully accepted the blue sundress and sandals Mercer extended toward her. Mercer opened the envelope and grinned, waving them in the air.

  “Told you,” he whispered, pushing his thumb against the digitized plastic to activate it, and nodding for Davis to do the same. “Nothing to worry about.”

  They pocketed their activated cards and retreated the way they’d come, stopping behind some trees to quickly change before approaching the security
checkpoint from the mining side of the outskirts. Davis swept her hair up in a ponytail; it was the best she could do. But looking at Mercer and seeing his appreciative glance, she thought they could pass for normal again. They’d already planned to say they’d gone to the mines outside of Durham for research for a school project, if the patrols asked why two teenagers were wandering outside the city limits.

  “IDs,” the officer said in a gruff tone as they approached. He held out a meaty palm, eyeing Davis from head to toe without reservation. She found herself tensing as he examined her photo. For the first time, she wondered how far the news of her episode with Cole had traveled. She’d assumed it would stay in Columbus—it was rare that they were privy to the goings-on in other territories—but watching the man’s eyes narrow as he took in her information ignited fresh panic. She breathed audibly when he nodded and handed the small digitized card back to her.

  He accepted Mercer’s next, his eyes narrowed. “Just a minute.” The officer stood and approached his colleague, muttering something low as he showed the other man Mercer’s ID. Mercer and Davis exchanged anxious looks. Of the two of them, Mercer looked the most similar to his identification picture. Davis had dropped at least ten pounds from her illness, and her hair wasn’t as lustrous as it had been in the photo used for her own ID. Hers was the risky one. His had been the safe bet.

  The two officers returned to the checkpoint. The one wielding Mercer’s ID was frowning. “You’ll need to move through the DNA reader,” he said, gesturing toward a short line that was forming to their left, in front of an elaborate metal gateway. “Standard procedure.” Davis watched as lasers scanned the figure of a slim, middle-aged Prior. The machine beeped green and a patrolman waved her through to Durham.