32

The sun has moved down the sky. If I hold my hand to my face, it’s about a thumb’s length above the trees, which means I have another hour to kill before Logan finishes prepping for his trip back to Eden City.

I wander into the square, Logan’s absence a solid shadow. I’ve got to get used to this. Pretty soon that’s the best company I can expect.

The feather of a bird floats by on the wind, and I grab it from the air. The feather is ripped, torn in fluffs that drift away, trying to resurrect itself into something new. Trying to carve an alternate path out of its dead-end flight. Trying to break free of the life dictated by Fate.

The thought ties anchors to my feet. I’m like the feather, too. Battered and mangled, wanting to change my fate, but not knowing how.

I’m in danger of drowning in the dry and dusty dirt when I see Laurel walking toward the log cabin, a bunch of wildflowers dragging on the ground behind her. Me with my tattered feather, her with her wilted flowers. Aren’t we a sorry pair.

“Laurel, these poor flowers.” I pick them up and blow the grime from the petals. “Let me get you some water.”

I scoop up water from the barrel and plunk the flowers into the aluminum can, tucking the feather next to them. They fit nicely together. The can has more important functions than to serve as a vase, but maybe the flowers will perk up after a few minutes, even if I don’t have much hope for the feather.

“I tried to give them to Zed.” Her voice is as dull as a mud puddle. “He wasn’t interested in the flowers. And even less interested in me.”

“It’s not you. He’s afraid of his—”

“Future memory, I know,” she says bitterly. “But he’s already come all the way to Harmony to avoid it. Is he going to let it rule his life here, too? What kind of life do you have if you’re afraid of your memory at every turn? That’s no life at all.”

I swallow hard. I pull out the feather and stick it back in again.

“I’ve known him for two years,” she says. “In that time, I’ve seen nothing but a sweet, gentle man, trying to make up for sins he has yet to commit.” She grips the aluminum can. “I’m not scared, Callie. I have full trust in him. He has complete control of his actions—not his future self, not some memory, but him. He either refuses to hear me or he’s too scared to believe.”

She bends her head over the can, watering the flowers with her tears. After a moment, she plucks out a yellow flower and hands it to me. “I heard about Logan. I’m sorry.”

I take the flower and bring it to my nose. It smells sticky, like an overly sweet dessert. I can’t imagine anything other than bees being attracted by the scent.

“How come he’s going back?” she asks.

“He’s needed to stock the backpacks,” I say, trying to sound crisp. But my voice wilts like Laurel’s wildflowers, and unlike the blooms, no amount of watering will perk it back up. “And well…he’s not like the rest of us. No one was ever after him, so he doesn’t belong here.”

I choke over the words. A lot of things shouldn’t have happened. Logan shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have fallen for him. Doesn’t mean you can take them back, no matter how hard you try.

“If you ever need to talk, let me know,” she says. “We can be brokenhearted together.”

I give her back the flower and, after a moment of hesitation, take the feather out of the can. “Sounds fun.”

She squeezes my arm and heads into the log cabin. I continue through the square. Dinner time approaches, but I’m not ready to face the crowd yet.

I head to the clearing. Trailing my hand over the log, I dip my fingers into the grooves and skim them over the knots. I lay the feather inside the hollowed out space of the log. This is where it belongs, because this is the place where he told me he was leaving me forever.

But the trees have not absorbed that memory. When the leaves flutter, they do not crackle to the tune of severed hearts. They tell a story instead, of moist dirt and busy squirrels, of dry pine needles holding on stubbornly through the ice of winter.

The clearing’s blocked on three sides by pine trees. I lie on the ground behind the log, my head aligned with the feather, turning the dead tree into a fourth wall. I miss Jessa. More than Marisa, more than my mom, I miss my little sister.

She would know what to say right now. That’s what I need. Her cool hands on my hot cheeks. Her simple words, which hold more truth than a room full of future memories.

Ever since I’ve discovered my abilities as a Receiver, I’ve been opening my mind constantly to check for new memories. Looking for a way to help Jessa.

But this time, as I let the physical elements of my world melt away, I’m not trying to help my sister. I’m hoping she can comfort me.

Breathing deeply, I think of the blank spaces below a certain column. The gaping holes of a fish net. Angela’s open heart as she weeps for a child that may never be born.

The rush is familiar now, and welcome. Then something fills me up as if it were coming home. Here it is. The memory. Open.

I am holding a racquet loosely around its rubber-grip handle. Black shiny walls reflect the sleek sports cap holding the hair off my face, and a large blue square is painted on the hardwood floor. Something knocks thunk, thunk, thunk against the wall.

I’m at school during the Fitness Core, standing on a racquetball court.

The air is hot, as if it’s soaked up the sweat of all the people who’ve ever played here. A ball ricochets off the reflective wall and whizzes past me.

“What are you doing?” Olivia Dresden’s braids swish across her face as she spins on her foot. Her sports cap is on the hardwood floor, probably discarded as soon as she walked onto the court. “Hit the ball.”

“We can’t start the game,” I say. Across from us, the two corners of the square are empty. “The July Fifteen girls aren’t here.”

“Oh, the twins aren’t coming to school today,” Olivia says smugly. “Or ever again.”

The ball rolls off the wall and bumps into my foot. I pick it up. “Why not?”

“My mommy says all twins are the property of FuMA now. She says their brains have the same ge…ge…” She wrinkles her nose, trying to think of the right word. “Genetic makeup. So even though they’re two people, it’s like they’re one person.”

I frown, bouncing the ball with my racquet. “You’re lying.”

“Am not.” Olivia puts her hands on her hips. “That’s how the scientists figure out future memory. By looking at twin brains. You’re just mad your mommy isn’t head of FuMA, and you don’t know anything. One day, everyone will listen to what I say, and you’ll still be nothing.” She snatches my ball out of the air. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

She sweeps up her sports cap and stalks off the square. The glass door of the court slams so loudly my ears rattle.

I open my eyes. I’m back at the clearing, and the sun has ducked below the horizon. An insect crawls up my arm, and my entire back feels damp from the moisture in the ground.

My stomach ties into a knot. First universal screening and now twins. When will this madness end?

“There you are!” Like an apparition, Logan appears and steps over the log. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

I grab his hands and he pulls me off the ground. He’s leaving in a few short hours, but I can’t think about that. I’ll have the rest of my life to mourn his absence. So I do something I’ve never done before. I forget about our past. I forget about our future. I focus fully and entirely on us, right now.

I sit on the log facing him and tell him about the memory I received.

As I talk, the Chairwoman’s words echo in my mind. The First Incident is rapidly approaching. Now you see why we have to do it. Now you see why we have to do it. Now you see why we have to do it.

I suck in a breath. “If the scientists don’t currently know how to send memories, the First Incident must be the first time a memory is sent to the past. And if it’s rapidly approaching, then TechRA needs to figure out how to send a memory by that date. Because if they don’t…if they don’t…”

“Future memory as a technology may disappear from us altogether.”

I frown. “Is that even possible? So many of us have already received our future memories. Where did all those memories come from?”

“Of course it’s possible,” he says. “It’s the same reason you can change a future memory that’s already been sent, even though FuMA wants everyone to think you can’t. Time isn’t a closed loop. A parallel world is created the moment a memory is sent to the past—a new world where anything can happen.”

I jump to my feet, trying to wrap my mind around his words. If Logan’s right, then there is no paradox. And if I’m right, then the very existence of future memory is at stake. That would explain everything. Why TechRA is so desperate. Why they’re arresting psychics left and right.

Because their research isn’t a bunch of experiments for the sake of science. This research might affect our entire way of life.

He stands and walks to me. “You’re shaking.”

“What have we’ve gotten ourselves into?” I whisper.

He takes my face in his hands. “You’re safe here, Callie. Jessa’s safe. That’s what’s important.”

“For now,” I say despairingly. “Until her hair grows down to her shoulders. Until they get around to testing her during the universal screening.”

“Yes, but now is all we have. Now is what’s important.”

“I wish now could last forever,” I mumble into his shirt.

He tilts my chin up and kisses me. And I wish that could last forever, too.