I HAVE THE FIRST DREAMLESS sleep since I woke up in the hospital. The first thing I notice is that the train has stopped. That smooth rocking that helped loosen the memories from Tamar’s brain is gone. And then I realize that she’s gone too.
I must have slept like the dead, because she can’t get around without help, but her collapsible wheelchair is gone, her bags, everything. For the slimmest of seconds, I consider that all of this is just a figment of my imagination—the dreams, even Tamar—but then I catch my reflection in the mirror and taste her cherry-coconut lip balm on my lips.
I pull out my phone to see if she texted or called and see a missed text from Leo. It’s a link to a video from one of his social media feeds. The screen fills with the bright colors of the children’s lounge in the hospital. Police in riot gear and strapped with long guns are rushing through the hallway. A German shepherd on a leash rushes right up to Leo and sniffs the hidden camera attached to his oxygen tank and then trots off. Screams erupt in the background, and I see my favorite nurse get into a near fistfight with a police officer.
“We’re all being moved. The pigs are shutting the entire hospital down. Full riot gear, people. I’m having some trouble making out the letters on their chest plates, but it looks like DHS. Some are ICE. If my theory is correct, they’re… alien… Area 51… they’re getting close. Share this post!”
The camera buckles as he starts wheeling himself at top speed away from the melee.
“We’re American citizens!” he shouts as much as he can with his limited lung capacity, and then the video cuts out. I’m not sure what I’m seeing, so I reload the page and get an error message.
I flag the porter.
“Where are we?” I ask as I hold the door open with my shoulder.
“Pulling into Washington, DC.”
“Did you see my girlfriend get off? Shaved head, wheelchair?”
He winces. “I’ve been working a few cars. I’m not sure I could…”
“Sorry. Let me stop you. Do you have mobile payment service? MoneyApp? I hate to tip in cash. You never know what the tip share is gonna be, and you’ve really helped us out with her wheelchair and everything. The room service. Top-notch. Really.”
The guy brightens up a bit and gives me every detail of her departure. A minute later I’ve transferred eighty dollars into his account, and when I ask where Tamar is the second time around, he’s happy to let me know she got off at Quantico. He makes a quick call to a buddy who just happens to be a ticket agent at that location, and I’ve got the name of the only wheelchair-accessible ride-share company that will drive from Quantico to DC.
I must have said something—no, I did something, but I can’t think what it is. Shit, this isn’t my fault, or hers; this whole situation is just too weird. Maybe it was too much for her to take. The sun has baked off the dawn fog, but it’s still early. I’m getting into the ride-share when my phone buzzes.
Tam: I’m sorry.
Fay: R u ok
Tam: Fine. I…
I stare at the screen as she writes and rewrites something. Those three dots are a held breath, a pause where my entire life dangles in the balance. What is there to say to reassure her? I got nothing. But when all else fails, you stay the course. She has the ring. I’ve got the stone. We still have a job to do.
Fay: I’m going to make the drop. I got us a room at the downtown Marriott. We can talk after.
Fay: I’ll never leave, okay? Even if I’m not sure about anything else, I’m sure about you.
Tam:…
The three dots sit there for another minute and then they disappear. A seed of dread starts to root in my gut, and a thousand doom-filled scenarios emerge like a cloud of locusts. I can barely see straight.
“Uh, kid? The ride says you want to head downtown to the Smithsonian. You sure you want to do that today? With the protests on the National Mall and all?”
“I need to drop my bags at the hotel first. What protests?”
After that first Google search about the airport blast and then the stone, I haven’t been so pressed to check the headlines. The plan is to make a smooth drop-off during visiting hours. It’s a weekday. There shouldn’t be any problems getting in, but I should have known fate would throw a wrench in all this.
We pull onto Constitution Avenue and hit a wall of people, some dressed in scrubs and white coats, others with T-shirts that READ REMEMBER THE DEAD, and a few have painted their faces to look like skeletons.
“It’s a health care thing. The Mall ain’t a stranger to demonstrations, but this is the biggest one I’ve seen in a while. Aggressive, too. Reminds me of the ACT UP protests in the nineties. AIDS activists, you know? They used to throw the ashes of their dead lovers on the White House lawn. You believe that?” the driver says.
I stare wide-eyed at the crowds, trying to calculate my next move.
“But who am I to judge strategy, right? They got what they wanted. It made people pay attention. Anyway, I’m just warning you. The boys in blue might come in hard on ’em if things get heated. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. You sure you still wanna go?”
My head nods yes before I can get my mouth to work.
“All right, it’s your funeral,” he replies. “We’ll have to wait while we work through the lights.”
I can’t wait. I take a chance and get out of the car and pay him extra to loop around museum a few times before picking me back up to ride to the hotel.
I feel like I’m swimming upstream as I make my way to the museum. There’s an electricity in the air that I would probably find energizing on any other day, but today I’m more nervous than anything, pulled as tight as a kora string. The driver was right: The crowd is aggressive, chanting loud with fists in the air, mouths pulled into angry grimaces that look all the more ominous with the black-and-white makeup. I blink and they’re just people. I blink again and they’re an angry chorus of the dead, a legion of demons sent to steal my soul. The stone feels heavy in my pocket, and getting heavier with each step I take closer to the museum doors. It’s hot out, nearly ninety degrees, and I feel every degree as I stand in line to get in. All I have to do is buy a T-shirt, wrap the stone in it as I wipe off my fingerprints, and drop it at lost and found. Simple. Then Tamar and I can talk and figure the rest of it out. Everything else will fall into place after that. I hope. I take another step and hear a pop, then a scream. Next thing I know, it’s total chaos.
It’s dark and cold, much colder than I thought it would be, when I make it to the hotel. For a few miles I was sure I was being followed, but I chalk it up to paranoia. My eyes still burn a bit from the tear gas, but I’ll live. It’s my stomach that needs attention. I haven’t eaten anything in hours. The front-desk agent can hear it growl, and while her face remains neutral, I can see her eyes dart to the side at the sound. She hands me my key card, but lets me know the room won’t be ready for another hour.
“A girl was here. She tried to check in earlier.”
I draw in a breath of relief. “Where is she?” I ask as I look around the empty foyer, but she directs me to the restaurant next door, a tiny place called the Last Chance Diner.
It’s one of those local places, I guess, with a bright neon pie plate for a sign. The glow gives the street an otherworldly feel. All the other establishments on the block are sleek and modern, with small tables on the sidewalk, but this place looks quaint in comparison. I have to wonder how they stay in business.
A bell dings when I open the door, and everyone looks my way.
“It’s your last chance, traveler!” a waitress behind the counter sings brightly, and a couple of people groan. The smell of coffee and something smoky and familiar assaults me as soon as the door swings closed.
A man, possibly the manager, if his button-down shirt and name tag are any indication, slaps the counter angrily with a dishrag. “Stop saying that every time somebody walks through the damn door, Patience.”
“But it’s our tagline, Daddy,” she says sweetly. “You’ll see. It’ll catch on. Sit anywhere you like, sweetie!” she calls out.
A boy no older than ten is in one booth, copying something from a textbook, while a pair of twins who look like models sit at the small bar. A man who is either suffering from a fatal case of bad taste or makes his living as a pimp is squeezed into a booth with a few folks in dirty jumpsuits. All of them are staring at a large television screen installed behind the bar, where the news is playing.
I scan the faces in the low light and then switch tactics and scan the feet of everyone in the crowd, looking for wheels. My stomach sinks when I realize there isn’t anything shining. The pre-paid phone slides inside my fist on cold sweat and then I see them. Crutches, glinting at the edge of the crowd.
“So what was the point of leaving me if we’re going to end up in the same place anyway?” I say as I slide into the booth.
“I knew you’d find me once the hotel clerk let you know the room wasn’t ready. I just needed some time to think.”
“You couldn’t think in the club car while I was sleeping? You didn’t have to be sooo—”
“If you say ‘dramatic,’ I’ll throw this coffee in your face,” she says, but she’s not angry; she sounds tired. Somehow that makes my heart sink more.
The waitress comes over and asks if I want anything. I tell her I’ll take the special. I don’t care what it is.
“Anything more for you, sweetheart?” she asks Tamar. I can barely hear her over the jukebox playing “Where Is the Love” by Donny Hathaway and Roberta Flack. I know this because the cheetah-print-suit guy in the next booth over announces it, along with the release date, as soon as the track starts, like we’re playing some kind of trivia game.
Tamar shakes her head.
“How about a piece of pie?” the waitress tries.
“No, thank you,” Tamar protests.
“You should eat. How about some chicken soup? Ooooh, or some of our Tennessee hot chicken. It’s my grandma’s recipe. I guarantee you’ll love it,” she gushes.
“Patience!” Tamar snaps. “Really, I’m fine.”
The waitress is still for a breath and then tops off Tamar’s coffee. “I’ll bring you the pie.”
“She’s aggressive,” I say.
“She’s been that way since I came in. The manager, though, has been staring at me like I’m going to rob the place since the moment I sat down,” she says, shifting her body.
I take a look at the guy. He does look angry. He also reminds me of someone.
“So, you gonna tell me why you left?” I ask.
I hold out my hand, palm up, until Tamar places hers in mine. I squeeze it, anchoring us here.
“Do you feel like there’s something we’re supposed to do?” she asks.
“Well, the first thing that comes to mind is getting rid of this thing, whatever it is,” I reply.
“Yeah, and how did that work out today?” she asks.
“A minor setback. We’ll try again tomorrow,” I say as optimistically as I can muster.
“Tear gas and rubber bullets aren’t minor. When I was trying to make it to the Mall, it seemed like the world forgot how to drive. There were six car accidents, and then when the driver got out to get my wheelchair, the first tear-gas can erupted. I slammed the car door so the air couldn’t get in, and then someone ran over my chair,” she says, her voice shaking.
“Damn.”
“Yeah, damn, or, better yet, damned,” she replies. She shakes her head and squeezes my hand harder. “I have this feeling, like déjà vu mixed with dread. I’ve had it since I woke up six weeks ago without even remembering my name, a feeling in my gut like there’s something I’m missing. I feel better when I’m with you, but I also feel like it’s getting stronger.”
“Like you’re running out of time?” I ask.
“Yes!”
“Maybe we should just go back, then. Mail the rock and the ring anonymously. I know Spelman is your auntie’s thing, but there’s a music program at Carolina. Instead of Morehouse, I could enroll in the linguistics department there.”
“I thought you were interested in history, or even physics,” she says.
“He was. I’ve been thinking about the Air Force, really. Can’t get the space program out of my head for some reason.”
She frowns and pulls her hand back.
“Don’t change your plans for me,” Tamar says sadly.
“But I want to. I want to be with you. It’s the only thing I’m sure of. Nothing else seems familiar, not these clothes, not the food I eat, not even how my body moves. It’s like there’s too much gravity. It all feels wrong. But when I’m with you, the world and my place in it click,” I say, wanting to tell her everything I feel, put it all out there.
“That’s just it. I don’t think it’s supposed to,” she says, her voice low.
It’s quick. The sirens. Given how dark it is outside, I should have noticed the lights coming.
Floodlights pour into the diner from the outside, and a voice breaks through Donny Hathaway’s “You Were Meant for Me,” 1972.
“Time’s up!” An oddly robotic voice booms from outside the glass windows, so loud the mugs and wineglasses shake inside the restaurant. Every head in the diner turns toward us, and my gut churns. Red and blue lights spill into the diner. It’s over. I know without having to look that on the other side of those windows are our Crayola men.
“Exit the diner slowly!”
I slide out of the booth and make my way to Tamar’s side to help her with her crutches.
“One at a time,” the megaphone voice continues.
Tamar shakes her head.
“It didn’t happen like this last time,” she says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, not understanding what she means. I’ve never been in this diner before.
“Last time. We had more time last time,” she says, upset, searching for something, or perhaps someone, in the diner.
“You have ten seconds to move or we’re coming in!” the voice booms.
“I’ve got to go out there,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Don’t go.”
“Ten!”
“I’ve got to. Let me go first. We’ll work it out. Those lawyers I talked to will help. We’ll be okay.”
“Seven!”
A frustrated tear runs down her cheek as she scoots herself back into the booth and rests for a moment, trying to make herself smaller, her teeth biting into her bottom lip. She starts to move toward her crutches.
“Four!”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, and start backing toward the door, unable to let her out of my sight.
I open the door and put my hands into the air as I turn around. My shirt rides up, and I get a hit of the cool breeze right before a voice yells, “Gun!”
I don’t feel the shots, I hear them, and it’s weird that everything doesn’t fade to black; instead it all just gets brighter.