The Unbound

NINE

I FETCH THE discarded book from my bedroom floor and manage to finish the reading for my government class as the Thursday morning sun peeks over the horizon. At least it will be fresh in my mind, I reason as I pack up my school bag. As long as I can get through three chapters of lit theory and a section of precalc during lunch, I’ll avoid falling behind on the second day of school.

Dad knocks short and crisp on my door and says, “Up!” and I do my best to sound groggy as I call back and zip my bag closed. I’m halfway through the living room when the TV catches my eyes. It’s that same story. Only this time, in addition to the photo of the trashed room, there’s a title in bold on the bottom of the screen.

Retired Judge Phillip Missing

A photo goes up beside the anchor’s face, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I recognize the room now, because I know the man they’re talking about.

I met him two days ago.

Mr. Phillip likes to keep things neat.

I notice before he even lets me in. His welcome mat is straight, and the planters on the porch are evenly spaced, and when he opens the door I can see the order carrying through into the entryway, where three pairs of shoes are lined up, laces out.

“You must be from Bishop’s,” he says, gesturing to the box tucked under my arm. It has a blue cursive B on the top. Until school starts, Mom has me running deliveries as payment for the new bike. Not that I mind. The fresh air helps me stay awake, and the riding helps me learn the city grid—which isn’t a grid at all here on the edges, but a mess of veering streets and neighborhoods, apartments and parks.

“Yes, sir,” I say, holding out the box. “A dozen chocolate chip.”

He nods and takes the box, patting his back pocket and then frowning a little. “Wallet must be in the kitchen,” he says. “Come on in.”

I hesitate. I was raised not to take candy from strangers or climb into vans or follow older men into their homes, but Mr. Phillip hardly looks threatening. And even if he is, I’m willing to bet I could take him.

I roll my wrist, listening to the bones crack as I cross the threshold. Mr. Phillip is already in the kitchen—which is clean enough to make me think he doesn’t use it—arranging the cookies on a plate. He leans in and inhales, and his eyes turn sad.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Not the same,” he says softly.

He tells me about his wife. She’s dead. He tells me how, before, the house always seemed to smell like cookies. He doesn’t even like to eat them. He just misses the smell. But it’s not the same.

We stand there in this unused kitchen, and I don’t know what to do. Part of me wishes Mr. Phillip had never asked me to come in, because I don’t need his feelings on top of mine. But I’m here now and I might be able to fix him, or at least glue a couple pieces back together. Finally I hold out my hand.

“Give me the box,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Here,” I say, taking the empty container from his hands and dumping the tray of cookies inside. “I’ll be back.”

An hour later I’m there again, and instead of a box I’m holding a Tupperware of cookie dough: about twelve cookies’ worth. I show him how to heat the oven, and I scoop a few clumps of dough onto a sheet and slide the sheet in. I set the timer and tell Mr. Phillip to follow me outside.

“You’ll notice the smell more,” I say, “when you go back in.”

Mr. Phillip seems genuinely touched.

“What’s your name?” he asks as we stand on the porch.

“Mackenzie Bishop,” I say.

“You didn’t have to do this, Mackenzie,” he says.

I shrug. “I know.”

Da wouldn’t like it. He wasn’t a fan of looking back, not when time was still rolling forward, and I know at the end of the day I haven’t done anything but give a man in an empty kitchen a way of clinging to the past. But people like me can reach out and touch memories with only our fingers, so we can’t really fault everyone else for wanting to hold on, too.

The truth is, I get it. If someone could give me back the way our house felt when Ben was home, even a shred of it, I’d give them anything. People are made up of so many small details. Some—like the smell of cookies baking—we can recreate. Or at least try.

The timer goes off inside the house. Mr. Phillip opens the door, takes a deep breath, and smiles. “Perfect.”

Mr. Phillip liked to keep things neat. But on the screen, his apartment is in disarray. The room shown is one I only saw in passing on the way from the entry to the kitchen, an open living room with a wall of windows that look out onto a small, immaculate garden. But now the glass is shattered and the room is trashed, and Mr. Phillip is missing.

I turn the volume up, and the reporter’s voice spills into the living room.

“Well-known civil servant and recently retired judge Gregory Phillip is now considered a missing person, as well as the potential victim of an abduction.”

“Mackenzie,” cuts in Dad, striding through the room. “You’re going to be late.”

I hear the door close after him, but don’t take my eyes from the screen.

“As you can see behind me,” continues the reporter, “this room of his house was found in a state of chaos—paintings ripped from the walls, books strewn across the floor, chairs toppled, windows shattered. Are these the signs of a violent struggle, or a robber trying to cover his tracks?”

The camera cuts to a press conference, where a man with cropped reddish hair and a stern jaw issues a statement. A bar across the bottom of the screen identifies him as Detective Kinney. I wonder if he’s related to Amber.

“There’s no denying the signs of foul play,” says Detective Kinney. His voice is low, gruff. “And at this time, we are treating the case as an abduction.” The camera cuts back to the still frame of the trashed room, but the detective’s voice plays eerily on. “We are investigating all possible leads, and anyone with information should contact—”

I shut the TV off, but Mr. Phillip and the trashed room linger in my mind like echoes. What happened? When did it happen? Was I the last person to see him alive? Should I tell the police? What would I tell them? That I helped the man’s house smell like cookies?

I can’t go to the cops. The last thing I need is more attention. Whatever happened to him, it’s tragic…but it’s got nothing to do with me.

My phone goes off, and I realize I’m still standing in the empty living room, staring at the darkened screen. I dig it out of my bag to find a text from Wesley.

Got your battle armor on?

I smile, haul my bag onto my shoulder, and text back:

Can’t decide what to wear over it.

The conversation follows me down to the lobby.

What are your choices?

Black, black, or black?

My favorite color. You shouldn’t have.

Slimming.

Sexy.

Sensible.

And good for hiding bloodstains.

I smile and pocket the phone as I reach Bishop’s. Mom is busy talking to Ms. Angelli, a cat-happy antiques dealer from the fourth floor, and I swipe a muffin and a coffee and head out, feeling more awake than I have in weeks. Four hours of sleep, I marvel as I unchain Dante and pedal off.

I keep my eyes peeled for the golden man from yesterday, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and I actually start to wonder if he was ever there or if he was just another side effect of the sleeplessness. I hope for the latter, not wanting to think about what the former could mean.

The morning is cool, and I balance my coffee on the handlebars with one hand and steer with the other. As I ride, something fills my chest. Not fear or fatigue, but something lovely and light: hope. I was beginning to think I’d never find dreamless sleep again; but if I could find it in Roland’s daybed, then it’s possible to find it elsewhere, too. Right now, high on those four small hours of rest, possibility is enough.

When I get to Hyde, I find Cash leaning up against the bike rack, holding two coffees and shooing freshmen away like flies from the spot he’s saving me near the front gate. He smiles when he sees me, a broad grin that brightens the morning and helps push any lingering thoughts of Mr. Phillip from my mind. He scoots aside so I can park Dante.

“I wasn’t going to wait for you,” he explains, “but you see, the schedule flips. I showed you the route for the A block, but not the B block.”

“Isn’t it just the A block in reverse?”

“Well, yes,” he says, offering me one of the coffees. I take it, even though I just finished mine. “But I wanted to make sure you knew that. I didn’t want you to think me a negligent ambassador.”

“That would be a travesty,” I say, tugging off the workout pants beneath my skirt.

“Truly,” he says, sipping his drink. “I’m going to lose points as it is for not being able to show you to your morning classes. I’m on the opposite side of campus, and the teachers around here will lock you out if you’re late.”

“I won’t fault you.” I get the first pant leg off.

“Good. There are feedback cards around here somewhere, you know.”

“I’ll be sure to fill one out.…” My shoe catches on the second pant leg; when I try to tug it free, my backpack shifts from my other shoulder and my balance falters. Cash’s hand comes up to steady me, and his noise—all jazz and laughter and pulse—pounds through my head, loud enough to make me flinch and pull away, toppling the other direction, straight into the metallic rock band sound of Wesley Ayers.

He smiles, and I can’t tell if it’s my rare moment of clumsiness or the fact I lean into his noise instead of away from it that makes his eyes glitter.

“Steady there,” he says as I finally free the fabric from my shoe. I get both feet back on the ground, but his touch lingers a moment before sliding away, taking the thrum of music with it.

“Morning, Ayers,” says Cash with a nod.

“Where did you come from, Wes?” I ask.

He tips his head back down the sidewalk.

“What, no fancy car?” I tease.

“Ferrari’s in the shop,” he shoots back without missing a beat.

“And the Lexus?” chirps Cash.

Wesley rolls his eyes and shifts his attention to me. “Is this one giving you trouble?”

“On the contrary,” I say, “he’s been a perfect gentleman. One might even say a knight.”

“In shining armor,” adds Cash, gesturing to his gold stripes.

“He brought me coffee,” I say, holding up my cup.

Wes runs a hand through his black hair and sighs dramatically. “You never bring me coffee, Cassius.”

And then, out of nowhere, a girl swings her arm around Wesley from behind. He doesn’t even tense at the contact—I do—only smiles as she puts her manicured hands over his eyes.

“Morning, Elle,” he says cheerfully.

Elle—a pretty little thing, bird-thin with bottle-blond hair—actually giggles as she pulls away.

“How did you know?” she squeaks.

Because of your noise, I think drily.

Wesley shrugs. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“All the cool powers were taken,” mutters Cash, half into his coffee.

The girl is still hanging on Wesley. Perching on him. Like a bird on a branch. She’s chirping on about some fall dance when the bell finally rings, and I realize I’ve never been so happy to go to class.

It’s a good thing I’ve had two coffees to go with my four hours of sleep, because Mr. Lowell kicks off the day with a documentary on revolutionaries. And whether it’s the healthy dose of caffeine or the strange way the subject sinks its nails in, I manage to stay awake.

“The thing to remember about revolutionaries,” says Lowell, killing the video and flicking on the lights, “is that, while they may be viewed as terrorists by their oppressors, in their own eyes, they are champions. Martyrs. People willing to do what others won’t, or can’t, for the sake of whatever it is they believe in. In a way, we can see them as the most extreme incarnations of a society’s discontent. But just as people elevate their revolutionaries to the station of gods, avenging angels, heroes, so those revolutionaries elevate themselves.…”

As he continues, I picture Owen Chris Clarke, eyes blazing on the Coronado roof as he spoke of monsters and freedom and betrayal. Of tearing down the Archive, one branch at a time.

“But the mark of a revolutionary,” continues Lowell, “is the fact that cause comes first. No matter how elevated the revolutionary becomes in the eyes of others—and in his own eyes—his life will always matter less than the cause. It is expendable.”

Owen jumped off a roof. Took his own life to make sure the Archive couldn’t take his mind, his memories. To make sure that if—when—his History woke, he would remember everything. I have no doubt that Owen would have given or taken his life a hundred times to see the Archive burn.

“Sadly,” adds Lowell, “revolutionaries often find the lives of others equally expendable.”

Expendable. I write the word in my notebook.

Owen definitely saw the lives of others as expendable. From those he murdered to keep his sister a secret, to those he tried to murder—Wesley bleeding out so Owen could make a point—to me. Owen gave me the chance to come with him instead of standing in his way. As soon as I refused, I was worthless to him. Nothing more than another obstacle.

If Owen was a revolutionary, then what does that make me? Part of the machine? The world isn’t that black-and-white, is it? It doesn’t all boil down to with or against. Some of us just want to stay alive.