Page 92 of Fable for the End of the World

So I wait. And every time the door swings open, my breath catches in my throat and I hope to see her face. A face that knows me. A face that remembers.

A week later, there’s another ping on my tablet.

VISSER TO DEPART CTO POSITION

In a surprising move, Hendrik Visser is resigning from his position as chief technology officer at Caerus. A fellow executive, who has chosen to remain anonymous, states that Visser tendered his resignation this past Saturday.

“It was totally unexpected,” says the source. “The CEO was blindsided.”

Turnover among high-ranking executives at Caerus is exceedingly rare. As CTO, Visser not only oversaw all projects under the technological arm of the corporation, but a number of government initiatives on solar power, wind power, and hydropower; carbon computing; electric vehicles; and biotechnology.

Visser declined to comment directly on the reason for his departure; however, his office released an official statement.

“After many productive, fulfilling years at Caerus, including ten as chief technology officer, I will be voluntarily resigning from my post. This does not reflect at all on my relationship with other Caerus executives, dissatisfaction with the day-to-day workings of the company, or philosophical differences between myself and the company’s direction. I maintain the utmost respect for my fellow executives and will look back fondly upon my tenure. And, of course, I am honored to have played a role in the development of technologies that have been used to promote the welfare of all citizens of New Amsterdam.”

Visser also did not disclose whether he would be taking a new position elsewhere. The same anonymous source stated, “He is essentially retiring. He’s going to Elan, of course.”

Elan is the City’s most exclusive luxury apartmentcomplex, which has long been home to retired Caerus executives. Elan’s reputation as child-friendly and family-oriented lends credence to the theory that in light of his recent marriage, Visser is retiring to focus on domestic life.

The article includes a slideshow of photos from Elan’s website. It’s a mammoth cluster of buildings, all glass and smooth gray metal, surrounded by squares of immaculately landscaped grass where children play and dogs chase after Frisbees. There are swimming pools larger and longer than the main street of Esopus Creek, glistening with clear, artificially blue water. Naturally, all of it is housed within a climate-controlled dome, to keep the polluted air out.

And the rain. I wonder if, somehow, she’ll be able to hear it. See it. Maybe the dome can’t fully muffle the sound of rolling thunder. Maybe the droplets will still audibly patter on the glass. Maybe she’ll wake in the dead of night, lightning streaking across the removed, distant black sky. And maybe, as the clouds gather overhead, paradoxically, the haze will clear from her eyes.

She told me that the brain is the most complex organ in the human body. When something breaks, it can’t just be set in a splint and left to mend. Brain cells, when they die, can never regenerate. You can only hope that the mind develops new pathways to circumvent the hole. And memory is the trickiest element of all. Not even Caerus has mastered the science of it. There will always be gulfsin their understanding—long, black chasms large enough to fall through.

And there will always be those things that shoot up like river rocks in the dark water. The current pulls your raft downstream, and maybe you don’t know there’s anything in your path until the wood splinters under your feet. And you can strike and strike your flint, but you don’t know how many strokes it will take until the tinder goes up in flame.

It was the rain that undid her. Or rather, undid all of Caerus’s hard work. Wipe after Wipe, and there was always the sharp stone in the water. Always the spark that caught fire. I wonder how many times she’s been strapped down to the table, syringe in her throat. I wonder if maybe it’s impossible for Caerus to take everything, no matter how hard they try. I wonder, and the wonder turns to hope.

One of the splurges we made with Zetamon’s crowdfunded money was a car. It’s even older than the one we borrowed from Dr. Wessels, and it came to us with mud painted up and down the sides and three airless tires, but it runs okay for short trips. And the train station isn’t far.

As we drive down the bumpy, unpaved roads, the car jostling us as it rolls through puddles and potholes, neither Luka nor I speak.

The train is waiting when we arrive, as sleek and silver as a bullet. Passengers are gathered at the doors. Luka puts the car in park and just stares, fingers tightening around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

“Luka?” I ask softly.

He turns. A muscle feathers in his jaw. His eyes are my eyes, and when I look into them, I see them shining with unshed tears. “Yeah?”

“I’m coming back,” I say. “I promise.”

He just avoids my gaze, and the air in the car grows thick with silence. I don’t blame him for his distress. All our lives, there’s been nothing but leaving. I can’t undo the pain of what came before, the months we spent waiting and hoping that Dad loved us enough to return, the hours we spent waiting hand and foot on Mom and wondering if she saw us as anything more than servants. But I can start shaping a new world, one that isn’t marked by closing doors and hollow, silent, lonely grief.

I’m going to reiterate my promise—I’ll say it over and over again until he believes me—but then, astonishingly, Luka leans over in his seat and wraps his arms around me. I’m so surprised it takes me a moment to hug him back. I press my face into his shoulder, the darkness behind my eyes fuzzy and incomplete, and my heart cracks and then mends itself, with a fiercer, stronger bragging than before.

“I’ll see you soon,” Luka says, when he lets go.

“I’ll see you soon,” I echo.

I’ll step off the train. I’ll follow the crowd anxiously through the station, stumbling and fumbling through unfamiliar corridors. I’ll navigate the gridded, smog-choked streets. My hair is long and loose down my back, and I wear all white.

I’ll take another train, if I have to, or a cab, or a bus. I’ll findmy way to those hulking glass buildings. I’ll walk circles around the manicured lawns; I’ll peer through the windows; I’ll pass by the pools and the tennis courts and the little patios where the City folk drink candy-colored cocktails and stretch out under the rare and precious rays of sun.

Maybe she won’t appear today. But I’ll come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, if I have to. I’ll push through the crowds. I’ll watch and I’ll wait. I’m seventeen, and I have a thousand brilliantly hued hazardous sunrises to spare.

And yet not a moment of it will feel like a waste. Because I know that when our eyes meet, through the glass, over the heads of strangers, in the bright, shining dawn or the soft, fading twilight, she’ll remember.

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