CHAPTER 14
BORROW AN EGG
Ephraim tried to forget — an interesting bit of personal sabotage.
He brushed crumbs off his shirt and pants (last night’s dinner had been potato chips), tried to stretch, and eventually settled for walking laps around the room. When the room struck Ephraim as too dark and too quiet, he took a shower. The hot water felt good, so he stood beneath its spray for a half hour. He got out, realized he’d been so preoccupied with trying to ignore yesterday that he’d forgotten to wash, and got back in. He stayed an extra fifteen minutes just because.
When he was finished, dried, and dressed, the memory of what the chat window had told him hadn’t faded at all.
It wasn’t fair. Over the past few weeks, he’d developed a pattern of witnessing something, questioning its reality, then trying to prove that it had happened. Now that his MyLife was more or less working again, he’d been obsessively reviewing even the most mundane occurrences just to make sure they’d occurred and that he wasn’t just crazy.
Did I brush my teeth? I feel like I brushed my teeth. I seem to remember it. Then he’d go to the video replay and find out.
So, too, for eating breakfast, going to the store, reading magazines, stepping on cockroaches and turning on the fan for a few minutes when it seemed too warm, but then seemed too cool. Half of Ephraim’s life — especially during the last 24 hours — had been lived in replay. There was doing or seeing something, then verifying that he’d done or seen it. That was his new anchor; no matter what, nothing would ever be forgotten again.
But this one time, he needed to forget what he’d seen. Because he wanted to go to wherever that webcam chat was sending him, seeing as it was a clue and clues were all he had. He was so compelled to go, in fact, that the only way he wouldn’t go was if he forgot how to get there.
In Ephraim’s saner moments, he set about assiduously trying not to remember. But the damn thing was stuck in his cortex like the hook of a horrible song.
114 Burkhouser. Borrow an egg.
Ephraim opened the blinds. The light hurt his eyes.
114 Burkhouser.
He made himself a proper breakfast. He seemed to have bought eggs and then verified their purchase via MyLife, so he scrambled them. Ate them. Wiped his chin with a napkin.
Borrow an egg.
He needed to talk to someone about this. He needed someone to slap him around a little — either to talk him into or out of his compulsion.
But who? He didn’t have friends these days. Jonathan was probably dead; Fiona may have had him killed. That ruled out Fiona, and Sophie had made it clear they were done chatting. He for damn sure wasn’t going to call Wood. Hershel might be playing him the way Fiona was probably playing him.
Fiona wanted Ephraim to get something from Wood.
Wood wanted Ephraim to get something from Fiona.
Interestingly, Eden — who was supposed to be the enemy — was the only party in this mess who’d remained quiet.
You should go, Ephraim. Go to the address. What will it hurt? At least then maybe you’ll have some answers.
He searched the address. It came up empty. The street was somewhere in Jersey, but nothing seemed to be at number 114. There was a 112 Burkhouser (Chez Luis, a fancy French restaurant) and a 116 Burkhouser (a flower shop called Blumen), but there was no 114. Google Maps showed the two buildings from above with nothing in between but a shared alley for their dumpsters.
Fuck it. This was stupid.
He wouldn’t go.
He wouldn’t go.