The Unbound

SEVENTEEN

GROWING UP, I have bad dreams.

My parents leave the lights on. They close the closet door. They check under the bed. But it doesn’t help, because I am not afraid of the dark or the closet or the gap between the mattress and the floor, places where monsters are said to lurk. I never dream of monsters, not the kind with fangs or claws. I dream of people. Of bad people dropped into days and nights so simple and vivid that I never question if any of it’s real.

One night in the middle of summer, Da comes in and perches on the edge of my bed and asks me what I’m so afraid of.

“That I’ll get stuck,” I whisper. “That I’ll never wake up.”

He shrugs. “But you will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s the thing about dreams, Kenzie. Whether they’re good or bad, they always end.”

“But I don’t know it’s a dream, not until I wake up.”

He leans in, resting his weathered hand on the bed. “Treat all the bad things like dreams, Kenzie. That way, no matter how scary or dark they get, you just have to survive until you wake up.”

This is a bad dream.

This is a nightmare. Dad is speeding, and Mom is sitting in the backseat putting pressure on my arm and I’m squeezing my eyes shut and waiting to wake up.

It was a dream. I was dreaming. It wasn’t real. But the cut is real, and the pain is real, and the blood still streaked across our bathroom sink is real.

What’s happening to me?

I am Mackenzie Bishop. I am a Keeper for the Archive and I am the one who goes bump in the night, not the one who slips. I am the girl of steel, and this is all a bad dream and I have to wake up.

How many Keepers lose their minds?

“We’re almost there,” says Mom. “It’s going to be okay.”

It’s not. No matter what, it’s not going to be okay.

I’m not okay.

Someone is trying to frame me, and they don’t even have to, because I’m not fit to serve. Not like this. I’m trying so hard to be okay, and it’s not working.

Aren’t you tired?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don’t realize until Mom presses a hand to my face that there are tears streaming down it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper under the sound of her noise against my skin.

Fourteen stitches.

That’s how many it takes to close the cut in my arm (the marks on my right hand from holding the glass are shallow enough to be taped). The nurse—a middle-aged woman with steady hands and a stern jaw—judges me as she sews, her lips pursed like I did it for attention. And the whole time, my parents are standing there, watching.

They don’t look angry. They look sad, and hurt, and scared—like they don’t know how they went from having two functioning children to one broken one. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but there’s no lie I can tell to make this better, and the truth will only make everything worse, so the room stays silent while the nurse works. Dad keeps his hand on Mom’s shoulder, and Mom keeps her hand on her phone, but she has the decency not to call Colleen until the nurse finishes the stitches and asks them to step outside with her. There’s a window in the room, and through the blinds I can see them walk away down the hall.

They’ve made me wear one of those blue tie-waisted smocks, and my eyes travel over my arms and legs silently assessing not only the most obvious damage, but the last four years’ worth of scars. Each one of them has a story: skin scraped off against the stone walls of the Narrows, Histories fighting back tooth and nail. And then there are the scars that leave no mark: the cracked ribs and the wrist that won’t heal because I keep rolling it, listening to the click click click. But contrary to Colleen’s theories, the cut along my arm—the one now hidden under a bright white bandage—is the first I’ve ever given myself.

I didn’t, I think. I don’t—

“Miss Bishop?” says a voice, and my head snaps up. I didn’t hear the door open, but a woman I’ve never seen before is standing in the doorway. Her dirty blond hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, but her perfect posture and the way she pronounces my name send off warning bells in my head. Crew? Not one I’ve ever met, but the ledger’s full of pages, and I only know a few. Then I read the name tag on her slim-cut suit, and I almost wish she were Crew.

Dallas McCormick, Psychologist. She has a notebook and a pen in one hand.

“I prefer Mackenzie,” I say. “Can I help you?”

A smile flickers on her face. “I should probably be the one asking that question.” There’s a chair beside the bed, and she sinks into it. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day,” she says, pointing to my bandaged arm with her pen.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Dallas brightens. “Why don’t you tell me?”

I stare at her in silence. She stares back. And then she sits forward, and the smile slides from her face. “You know what I think?”

“No.”

Dallas is undeterred. “I think you’re wearing too much armor,” she says. I frown, but she continues. “The funny thing about armor is that it doesn’t just keep other people out. It keeps us in. We build it up around us, not realizing that we’re trapping ourselves. And really, you end up with two people. That shiny metal one…”

The girl of steel.

“…and the human one inside, who’s falling apart.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t be two people. You end up being neither.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you made that cut on your arm,” she says simply. “And I know that sometimes people hurt themselves because it’s the only way to get through the armor.”

“I’m not a cutter,” I say. “I didn’t mean to do this to myself. It was an accident.”

“Or a confession.” My stomach turns at the word. “A cry for help,” she adds. “I’m here to help.”

“You can’t.” I close my eyes. “It’s complicated.”

Dallas shrugs. “Life is complicated.”

Silence settles between us, but I don’t trust myself to say any more. Finally Dallas stands back up and tucks the notebook she brought and never opened under her arm.

“You must be tired,” she says. “I’ll come back in the morning.”

My chest tightens. “They finished stitching me up. I thought I’d be able to go.”

“Such a rush,” she says. “Got somewhere to be?”

I hold her gaze. “I just hate hospitals.”

Dallas smiles grimly. “Join the club.” Then she tells me to get some rest and slips out.

Yeah, rest. Since that seems to be making everything better.

Dallas leaves, and I’m about to look away when I see a man stop her in the hall. Through the blinds, I watch them talk for a moment, and then he points at my door. At me. His gold hair glitters, even under the artificial hospital lights. Eric.

Dallas crosses her arms as they talk. I can’t read her lips, so I can only imagine what she’s telling him. When she’s done, he glances my way. I expect him to look smug, like Sako—the Keeper is digging her own grave—but he doesn’t. His eyes are dark with worry as he nods once, turns, and walks away.

I bring my hand to my chest, feeling my key through the too-thin hospital smock as the nurse appears with two little pills and a white paper cup filled with water.

“For pain,” she says. I wish I could take them, but I’m worried that “for pain” also means “for sleep.” Thankfully she leaves them on the table, and I pocket them before my parents can see.

Mom spends the rest of the night on the phone with Colleen, and Dad spends it pretending to read a magazine while really watching me. Neither one of them says a word. Which is fine with me, because I don’t have words for them right now. When they finally drift off, Dad in a chair and Mom on a cot, I get up. My clothes and cell are sitting on a chair, and I get changed, pocket the phone, and slip out into the hall. The hospital is strangely quiet as I pad through it in search of a soda machine. I’m just loading a bill into the illuminated front of one when I feel the scratch of letters in my pocket and pull out the list as a fourth name adds itself to my list.

Four names.

Four Histories I can’t return. Roland’s warning echoes in my head.

Just do your job and stay out of trouble, and you’ll be okay.

I take a deep breath and dig my cell out of my other pocket.

Hey, partner in crime.

A second later, Wesley writes back.

Hey, you. I hope your night’s not as boring as mine.

I wish.

I think about typing the story into the phone, but now is not the time to explain.

I need a favor.

Name it.

I chew my lip, thinking of how to say it.

A few kids are up past their bedtimes. Tuck them in for me?

Sure thing.

Thanks. I owe you.

Is everything okay?

It’s a funny story. I’ll tell you tomorrow.

I’ll hold you to it.

I pocket the phone and the list and dig the soda out of the machine, slumping onto a bench to drink it. It’s late and the hall is quiet, and I replay Judge Phillip’s crime scene in my head. I know what I saw. The void was real. I have to assume there are two more: one in Bethany’s driveway and another wherever Jason vanished. Three innocent people gone. If there’s any upside to my being stuck here, it’s that no one else should get hurt.

I finish the soda and get to my feet. The local anesthetic has worn off, and the pain in my arm is bad enough to make me consider the pills in my pocket. I throw them away to be safe and head back to my room and climb into bed. I’m not feeling anywhere close to sleep, but I’m also not feeling anywhere close to normal. I think of Lyndsey, who always makes me feel a little bit closer to okay, and text her.

Are you awake?

Stargazing.

I picture her sitting on her roof, cross-legged with a cup of tea and an upturned face.

You?

Grounded.

Shocker!

That I did something wrong?

No. That you got caught. ;)

I let out a small, sad laugh.

Night.

Sleep sweet.

The clock on the wall says eleven forty-five. It’s going to be a long night. I unfold the list in my lap and watch as, over the next hour, the names go out like lights.