Page 39 of Lost Echoes
Luke mutters under his breath, “They’re building a war plan.”
I can’t stop staring at the screen, my skin on fire. For months, we’ve been fumbling in the dark. Now, finally, it feels like the lights are coming on.
I type, fingers trembling:
Tell us what we need to do.
Phoenix replies:
Stay hidden. Keep listening. Keep everyone safe. And when the moment comes, help us.
The cursor blinks, waiting.
Stage. Script. Performance.
The words feel heavier now. Like we’re not just uncovering someone else’s theater, but we’re stepping into it.
And this time, the world will be watching.
20
Kenzi
The blinds are half-drawn, cutting the morning light into bars across the floor. It feels like a stage set even here, in the hospital’s therapy room. Maybe that’s why my skin itches, like I’m about to be called on to perform.
But I’m not. That isn’t real. My recovery is, and so is returning home to my family.
Dr. Hanson sits across from me, the confiscated journal closed on the table between us. Her hands rest lightly on her knees, steady, waiting. “You said you’re ready to remember. Today we’ll begin carefully. No hypnosis. Just you and me, and the memories that rise when we touch the edges of the script.”
My chest tightens. I think of Fenna, her laugh, her wide trusting eyes. If I don’t do this, I’ll never know how to keep her safe. I’ll always wonder if one word, one gesture, could flip a switch inside me and make me hurt her.
“I have to,” I whisper, tears threatening. “Even if it breaks me.”
Dr. Hanson nods once. “We’ll do everything we can to avoid that by going slow. We’ll anchor you here in this room. If it overwhelms you, say stop, and we’ll stop. Nothing will pull you under without your permission. Okay?”
I try to believe her. My palms press hard against the chair’s armrests, grounding myself. “Okay.”
She opens a thin folder. Radley’s “script.” The pages are yellowed copies, typed in clipped phrases.
“Read the first line aloud,” she instructs.
My throat tightens, but I force my eyes to focus. The words blur, then sharpen.
Smile before you speak. Obey before you question. The stage is safety. The audience is a god.
A tremor seizes me, and I taste metal in my mouth. My body knows these words even if my mind wishes it didn’t. My shoulders rise, spine straightens, a stage smile stretches against my will.
Dr. Hanson’s voice cuts through. “Kenzi, breathe. Look at me. You’re not there—you’re here.”
I fight to keep my eyes on hers. Slowly, the smile fades.
And then a memory crashes in, unbidden. Laurel’s hand on my shoulder. The white spool pressed into my palm. Children in masks staring, waiting for me to act on my cue.
I choke out, “I didn’t want to…” My hands shake violently. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”
Dr. Hanson leans forward. “Say it again. Make the memory yours, not theirs.”
“I didn’t want to!” My voice cracks. I clutch my knees, rocking forward. “They made me. She made me a puppet.” Hot tears spill, but something in me loosens. I’m not just reliving the performance. I’m naming it, claiming it as mine.
