Unleashed

I try to imagine where we’ll be in a month, but it’s all gray. Just fuzzy static when I try to visualize the future. There’s no clear image, and this is still strange to me. Months ago, I could picture my future down to the smallest detail. Prom. Graduation. Me with Zac in New York. Juilliard.

  Gil gets up and takes his plate to the sink. “I’m going to try the radio again.”

  Sabine groans. “The reception is terrible.”

  He shrugs. “I caught something earlier today.”

  He sits on a stool at the short stretch of countertop and fiddles with the radio. Sabine starts on her third pudding cup. I don’t know where she puts it, but at least she looks less gaunt than when we first met at Mount Haven.

  Scratchy static fills the air as Gil hunts for a station.

  I glance at Sean. “Do you think they’re looking for us?” I don’t have to elaborate. He knows I mean the people from Mount Haven. The fear has weighed on me—on all of us, I’m sure. It’s like we consciously try not to voice it. I search Sean’s face.

  “I doubt they’re giving up any staff or manpower to come after us. Someone will be keeping an eye out for us, but it’s probably not anyone from Mount Haven. Just general Agency people and the Border Patrol.”

  “We’re probably on some kind of list, though,” Gil chimes in, his face screwed tight with concentration as he slowly turns the dial. “Probably got our faces plastered all over the internet and every gas station between here and Austin.”

  Sabine snorts as she scrapes at the inside of the cup. “Like a list of the government’s most wanted carriers or something?”

  Not “or something.” There’s probably just such a list, and we’re on it. My stomach knots uncomfortably. I think about the fact that our faces are out there for every agent of the Wainwright Agency to commit to memory. We’ll never be free to return to this country.

  “We should think about altering our appearances,” Sean suggests. “I mean, we’re always going to be two guys and two girls . . . but maybe we can do something.”

  I nod, wondering how we could do that out here in the middle of nowhere. Tossing a knowing smile at us, Sabine gets up and moves down the hall to the bathroom.

  Gil continues to work over the box, turning the dial, inching along. Every once in a while a snatch of Tejano music fills the air. I grimace. The world still plays music. For some reason that strikes me as odd. Wrong somehow. Which is really weird for me to think. Have I actually reached a point where hearing music feels so wrong?

  “Hey.” Sean nudges me. “Finish your sandwich. You need your strength.”

  I force a smile and take another bite, working the thickness of peanut butter around in my mouth.

  Sean studies me, his eyebrows drawn tightly together in an expression of concern. He watches me like this all the time now. Like he’s worried something he says or does might be the final straw that shatters me.

  Sabine returns then, brandishing a few boxes in the air. “I just figured out why these are under the sink. This underground network thinks of everything.”

  “What are they?” Gil asks.

  “Clairol.” She reads each box. “Ebony Mocha, Nutmeg, and Midnight Black.” She looks back at me and Sean with an arched eyebrow. “Who wants to go first?”

  Sean and Gil watch in silence as Sabine cuts my hair with a pair of kitchen scissors. The blades saw sharply through the thick strands. Gil’s eyes widen as the long pieces fall like dandelions dropping through air.

  We all agreed cutting my hair would help alter my appearance, but the decision was mostly just to ensure we had enough dye. The instructions recommended two boxes for long hair, and since we only have one box of any given color, Sabine got to play barber.

  Sean’s expression is calmly neutral, but he watches me carefully, closely, staring at my face, not my rapidly diminishing hair. It’s like he’s waiting for me to crumble.

  Over hair? Does he think I’m that fragile? I start to shake my head at the idea, but stop at Sabine’s warning hiss.

  Holding still, I face myself in the mirror as Sabine moves around to the back. I watch my transformation with a curious sense of detachment. Oddly enough, I feel lighter. Unburdened. Like with every lock of hair hitting the floor, a bit of the old me is left behind, too, making way for a new girl.

  My hair now closely frames my face, ending just a little bit below my ears. My eyes pop, enormous in my face without my hair shrouding me. And my imprint pops, too. The dark band with the trademark H more pronounced than ever.

  “I think it’s pretty straight,” Sabine murmurs, her forehead knitting with intent focus. She clamps the scissors between her teeth and squats before me, grabbing the ends of my hair dangling just below my ears and stretching them to see if they match.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s just hair.”

  “Oh, this looks hot.” She grins at me.

  I snort.

  “Good?” She looks at Sean and Gil for confirmation.

  Sean steps inside the bathroom and suddenly everything grows tighter, claustrophobic almost. He lightly tugs at a lock of hair brushing the back of my neck. “This piece here. It’s still too long.”

  Sabine leans in and snips. “All right . . . now for the good part.”

  She shakes a plastic bottle holding the dark dye for several seconds, still grinning.

  “You’re having too much fun,” I accuse.

  She nods. “You know it. Maybe I have a future in this. When we get to where we’re going, I can open a salon.”

  Setting the bottle down, she tugs on a pair of plastic gloves with surgical precision and squirts some of the dark goo into her palms. The strong aroma fills the space, stinging my nostrils and making my eyes tear up. She cuts me a glance. “This might hurt a little.”

  I laugh. “Quit it.”

  “You’re not performing heart surgery,” Gil utters from the door.

  Sabine glances at Sean, who still fills the small bathroom, arching an eyebrow at him. “Gonna give me some room in here, big guy?”

  He hesitates a moment, looking from the handful of dark glop to me.

  I smile encouragingly. “It’s just hair,” I remind him.

  And I’m not just saying that to make him feel better. It’s true. A thing like cutting off my hair and dying it midnight black might have seemed reprehensible to the girl I used to be. But it didn’t even register on the radar of things I care about now.

  “That’s right,” Sabine agrees. “You’re not in love with her hair, right?”

  I glare at Sabine and bite back the impulse to argue that he’s not in love with me at all. At least he’s never said those words to me. It’s a relief, actually. The words would only make me feel bound to him, responsible for him in a way that I can’t deal with right now. I already care too much about him. About him and Gil and Sabine. I don’t need to pile on more.

  I hold my tongue in the strained silence that ensues. And that isn’t awkward. No. Not awkward at all.

  She rolls her eyes and with her one free hand adjusts the towel draping my shoulders. Leaning down, she says near my ear, “Lighten up.”

  That said, she smacks a handful of dye onto the top of my head and starts working it into the short mass of hair. It doesn’t take long until my hair is a wet black helmet hugging my scalp.

  Sabine glances at Gil. “Give me thirty minutes, then we’ll check it. Might take longer.”

  He glances at his watch. “Okay.”

  Her gaze narrows on Sean. “Next.”

  “All right. Let’s do this.” He pulls off his shirt and tosses it down, revealing his well-muscled torso. Zac was a rugby player, and I spent a lot of time in the summer around rugby guys. I always thought they were big, but Sean makes me reconsider my definition of big.

  Sabine’s eyes widen like she’s never seen a shirtless guy before, and I guess a shirtless Sean is a little gawk-worthy. It’s like he takes up all the space in the small bathroom.

  I sit on the toilet s
eat, lid down, and suffer the stink of dye soaking on my head. My scalp tingles and itches, and I have to resist digging my fingernails into the ink-dark mess piled on top of my head. The stench stings my nostrils, and I can only think of Mom right then. Her horror if she knew I was dying my hair. Then that thought dies. It wouldn’t have been the most horrible thing to happen to her daughter in recent months.

  Sitting on an upside-down bucket, Sean is stoic as Sabine makes quick work of his hair. He leans his back against the sink, looking as ridiculous as I do. Gil waves a hand in front of his face. “Sorry. Gotta bail before I pass out from the smell.”

  “Wimp!” Sabine calls, yanking off her gloves and tossing them in the trash. Taking a towel, she gives us both her attention, wiping at the skin edging our hairlines, cleaning off the brown ring so it doesn’t stain our faces too much. “You’re both going to be a pair of brunette beauties.” I smile. It’s hard not to.

  She turns and washes her hands in the sink, scrubbing at where some of the dye reached her forearms.

  I glance at Sean. “It’s good to see you smile,” he says.

  At his words, my smile threatens to slip away, but I fight to keep it in place.

  “I’m sure when we get across we’ll all have a lot more reason to smile,” Sabine interjects, staring at both of us in the mirror’s reflection.

  I nod, hoping she’s right.

  * * *

  ENTERTAINMENT Weekly

  News Release

  June 5, 2021

  * * *

  News out of Los Angeles, CA: The country is reeling from the news that forty-two-year-old beloved three-time Oscar winner Evangeline Alvares has stepped forward and announced that she carries the HTS gene. No word yet if she will be relocated to a detention camp. Agency spokespeople have refused comment. . . .

  THREE

  THAT NIGHT THE DEAD MAN LURKS IN THE CORNER again. I sneak a glance at Sean, still asleep. Nothing disturbs him. Not the girl slowly losing her mind beside him. Did I possess a mad gene, too, to go along with my kill gene? Because clearly, I’m losing it.

  I return my gaze to the figure in the corner. He’s motionless in that I-could-spring-at-you-any-moment way.

  “What do you want?” I demand, my voice whisper-soft, fingers clutching the blanket, fearful that I might wake Sean.

  There is no reply. I bury my face in my hands and then slide them up, pulling my hair back almost violently, eyes fixed unblinking on him.

  “I’m sorry. Just go away. Leave me alone. Please leave me alone.” The mantra trips from my lips, picking up speed.

  His guttural, barely-there voice reaches me. I lock up, all of me freezing tight as I search his shadow, straining to hear that hoarse stretch of a single word. “Never.”

  The solitary word tears through me like a rusty wire. Of course he’s never going away. I killed him. Took his life. Gazed into his eyes as he took his last breath. It’s impossible to hide from this. He’ll find me. Here. In Mexico. Wherever I go, he will go with me.

  A sob strangles my throat and I look down unseeingly, rocking, staring into my lap, tugging my short hair back until my scalp stings. Gibberish, incoherent pleas flow from my lips, begging him to go, to leave me alone. I don’t know who I’m talking to. God maybe. If God still listens to the prayers of someone like me.

  I relax my grip on my skull and look up. The dark shape is gone. Shadows bleed over the walls with the oncoming dawn. God. I laugh softly. Maybe I am losing my mind. Hallucinating. Either that or a ghost really is visiting me. Whatever the case, I’m pretty much in a world of suck.

  Sean still sleeps, lost in dreams. Or even better—that great oblivion of sleep where even dreams can’t touch you. He’s totally unmired in the past, and I envy him that. Maybe resent it, too. Even though it’s not his fault.

  I inhale, but the room feels too tight, the walls too close. The odor of my freshly dyed hair sears my nostrils. I slip from the bed and make my way down the narrow hall, my sock-clad feet treading silently on the floor, my palms skimming along the wall as I walk. I step past the smaller bedroom where Sabine sleeps. Gil snores from the couch.

  At the front door, I squeeze my feet into my shoes and turn the doorknob, desperate to taste air and feel open space all around me. Careful not to wake anyone, I ease outside.

  Cool twilight greets me. The cicadas go at it, a hypnotic drone that drapes over a thicker layer of silence. It’s this underlying silence that unnerves me. It throbs like something alive, pulsing over my skin. Through me. The kind of quiet that you never hear in the city. Or in the suburbs. That indefinable thing, that electric buzz, is missing. People.

  I tuck the choppy-short strands of hair behind my ears, exposing them to the bite of cold. I shiver, choosing my steps carefully over the broken and rutted ground as I make my way to the lookout. A quick glance behind reveals the hulking shape of the trailer. It looks innocuous, grim, and desolate sitting on concrete blocks, the hardwood planks cracked and buckling in places. The harsh climate has taken its toll on the structure. It’s as battered as the landscape.

  A coyote yips in the distance. Months ago the sound would have startled me and sent me running back for shelter. I would have been terrified of coming face-to-face with a wild animal, but I don’t worry anymore. There are worse things than beasts waiting in the dark. Things like me.

  Wind tears at my hair as I lower myself down to the outcropping overlooking the river far below. The rough scrape of rock abrades my palms as I settle my weight. Sean has spent hours out here, his skin turning brown from observing the comings and goings in the valley below.

  The faintest color tinges the sky, casting the dawn a murky blue. I hug my knees to my chest, wishing I’d brought a blanket with me. It’s cold in the mornings and at night.

  I know that the temperature will spike once the sun rises and bakes the earth—and us inside the trailer. We have a couple of table fans, but they only seem to stir the hot air around. I should enjoy the chill while I have it.

  The coyote is quiet now. It’s only the purr of cicadas over the silence as I squint into the darkness below, detecting the barest glint of water there, waiting for us to cross.

  Suddenly a blanket is draped over my shoulders. I start a little, glancing up sharply. Sean sinks down beside me.

  “You should tell someone when you’re leaving the trailer.”

  I nod. He’s right, of course. We’re fugitives. They’re looking for us. Well, maybe not us specifically, but carriers. We can’t be the only ones out here hiding. Hoping to get across.

  “Thank you.” I tighten my fingers around the edge of the blanket. The fabric helps ward off the chill, but I still shiver. Silence stretches between us as we stare out at the fading night.

  Sean’s voice strokes over me. “You ready to leave here?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Maybe out there, on the other side, dead men won’t haunt me.

  I feel his gaze on me. “What’s going on, Davy?”

  I don’t pretend that I don’t understand his meaning. I tried that with Sabine, but I can’t do that with Sean. Not after all we’ve been through. I owe him more than that. And yet I don’t know how to explain it, either. Am I prepared to confess that I’m seeing ghosts? “I can’t shake off Mount Haven. What I did there.” It’s as close as I can come to articulating the fact that I murdered someone in cold blood. He knows it, of course, but that doesn’t mean I can say it aloud.

  I turn and get caught up in his eyes. Their blue-gray glitters at me in the rising dawn, and I long for when those eyes used to make me feel all kinds of good. “It’ll pass,” he says.

  I nod, wanting to believe that, wanting to find some happiness.

  “Give it time,” he adds. “Things happen. Things that you think you’ll never get over. But you do. You move on. It gets better with time. You forget. Forgive. Whatever.” A long pause follows, like he’s thinking . . . remembering something. Probably that thing he’s forgiven himself for. “Life goes
on and you go on with it.”

  He sounds like he almost believes that. I study him, searching to see the crack in his expression that reveals he doesn’t—that he’s lying to himself. To me. It never comes. He’s reached some kind of peace inside himself. Desperate longing for that same peace fills me, spreading in a bitter ache through my chest.

  He catches me looking at him. “What?”

  “You really believe that.”

  “Sure.” A hint of a smile curves his lips. “I do.”

  “Then you mustn’t have done anything really wrong.”

  Nothing like I did.

  His jaw tenses and his gaze slides off me. In the emerging dawn I see a dimming in the light behind his eyes. “It was wrong.”

  “Tell me.” My gaze flicks to his imprint—the dark band with the circled H. We’re talking about this. Finally. About how he got the imprint. “How’d you get the tattoo?”

  His eyes fall unerringly back on me, almost as though I compelled him. As though my voice forced him to look at me.

  “Tell me,” I repeat, needing to hear this. I’ve waited so long to learn what he did to deserve that—if he did really do anything at all. He had been a child when the Agency imprinted him. Hard to imagine he could have done anything too terrible. Especially then. As good, as honorable, as he is now, how could he have been worse as a boy?

  “I was eleven,” he begins, his voice drifting, curling into the brightening air washing over us. “It was before my foster mom took me in, and I was at a home for boys. We slept in a dormitory. I had a top bunk.” He shrugs. “I thought it was cool. Bunk beds, you know.”

  I nod.

  “I’d been there a few months. I’d moved from a different facility to this new one for older boys,” he continues. “I was still fighting to find my place. Literally, every day. A bunch of us boys beating the piss out of each other.”

  “Sounds like a prison movie.”

  “Yeah. Not that different. Any time a new kid moved in, the hazing was brutal. Things had finally started to ease up for me, and then this new boy arrived. I can still remember his name. Branson.” Sean expels the name with a heavy breath. “He was about the same age as me but a hell of a lot bigger.”