The first thing I notice when I upload the new data is that the signal is no longer there. I mean, it was, but eventually the signal went dead, around the time Lydia mentioned the power going out. It’s not there after the reboot. I change views, change parameters, hit a thousand different random numbers searching for something more. But all that remains is the expected background noise of the vastness of space, exactly where it’s supposed to be—a whole lot of nothing, in an endless expanse of nothingness.
“No,” I mumble, something twisting inside. It was right here. I stare at the screen, scrolling through the data over and over.
“Kennedy? Can you come out here?” Joe calls, finally back from campus, but I’m not done checking, I keep hoping I’m wrong. It could be showing up somewhere I don’t understand, some part of the program I don’t know about—
“Hey, did you hear me?” Joe peeks his head into the room, catching me off guard. “What’s that?” he asks as I turn the monitor of the computer black.
“Physics,” I say, and Joe nods. Like, of course it’s physics. Not: I think I’m receiving a signal from outer space, but I think it’s a warning, and it’s coming to my house, which, by the way, I swing by at night sometimes while you’re sleeping.
“Can you take a break for a sec?” He asks this though I’ve already obviously shut it down. But we’re like this with each other, asking, always, before we step.
“Okay.” I follow Joe out to the living room, where he sits in the center of the sofa, his arms braced against his legs, leaning forward.
Oh God, we’re about to have a talk. This is the demeanor he exhibited when: we went over the ground rules; we discussed our living arrangement; he sat across from me in the hospital, trying to find the words. The police had taken me there, in the ambulance they had no use for otherwise, because they didn’t know what else to do with me. I sat there, alone, in a white-walled room, with white sheets, a white curtain, everything shadowed beyond the bed. I have no idea how long I was there, only that, by the time I left with Joe, it was daylight.
He’s gotten better at the words. Not so much the demeanor, though.
I perch on the edge of a flannel recliner chair that I’m fairly certain he found at the side of the road somewhere on trash day. And I balance myself carefully on the ledge, leaning forward, so I can take off at any moment, depending on the direction of the conversation.
It’s then I see he has a few sheets of papers beside him, folded into thirds. He spreads them open in front of him, his fingers trembling, like he’s prepared to give me some speech. “The district attorney’s office,” he begins, and I’m already standing.
Here I thought he was out having fun with friends. But he was probably just working his way up to this.
He puts the papers aside. “Kennedy, sit down. We’re supposed to do this. I promised them.”
“Joe, come on.”
“The trial starts next week, Kennedy.”
“It’s not my trial.”
I see the muscle in his jaw clenching, but he must’ve taken up yoga or something, because he takes this deep breath and the muscle finally relaxes. So much different than the early days, when he’d slam a door, grab at his hair, look up at the ceiling, his eyes bone-dry but looking as if he’d been crying. He takes a deep breath. “I told him we’d go over the questions. Just you and me. None of that.” He shakes his head, as if the problem were the office, the wooden table, the man, and not the crack running through everything.
“Joe, I know. I know. And we will, I promise. But I can’t tonight.” I scramble for any excuse, completely desperate. “Lydia asked if I could sleep over. I forgot to check with you, but I told her I’d be there after dinner.” I look at my phone. It’s definitely after dinner, whether we’ve eaten or not.
“It’s a school night,” he says, but his objection is halfhearted already.
“Right. But Lydia goes to my school. We’re studying. We were studying, earlier, but then I had to leave.” I stare directly at him, my eyes watering from not blinking. I’ve never lied to him so directly. I hold my breath.
“This is important,” he reiterates, though I can see he’s losing steam. Joe wants me to have friends, to have a social life. To move on. He wants me to do this.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “After school. I can do this tomorrow.” I gesture to the papers, the couch and chair, whatever this whole thing is.
He nods. “Do you need a ride?”
“No,” I say, “she’s close enough to take my bike.”
“Leave me the address. And a phone number.”
“Joe, come on,” I say, even though my mother would’ve said the same. “I have my phone.” But still, I jot down the address, knowing he won’t look it up. Because his mind is already somewhere else. “Go out,” I tell him. “Have some fun.”
Joe used to be surrounded by an ever-changing stream of girls. I’m not sure if they were girlfriends, but there was typically some girl. I’d met at least three different ones in those first six months when we all lived in the same town. When we moved last year for my mom’s new position at the university, my mom said it was because she wanted to keep the small family we had together as much as we could—at first I thought for Joe, since my grandparents died while he was in college; but now I thought it was really for us instead. But I haven’t seen any girl—or really, any friend at all—in the six months I’ve been living with Joe. As if, in solidarity, he’s adopted the same ground rules as me. “The house is yours again,” I say, gesturing with my arm in a flourish.
He smiles faintly. When he stands, I retreat toward my room, to get ready to spend the night at my old house, excited that I won’t need to sneak out to get there, for once.
When I’m almost at my room, he calls after me. “Kennedy, I miss them, too. I’m on your side. Always.”
My throat tightens. “I know,” I say, but I’m already closing the door, and I’m not sure if he’s heard me.
I need help. I need help from someone who is definitely on my side with this. Joe wouldn’t be. Joe thinks he is, but he wants to sell the house, and he wants to go over questions. He wants to sit in the past, dealing with the minutiae of what’s left of our lives.
My bag is packed for my fake stay at Lydia’s, but I’m not quite ready to go yet.
Visitor357 hasn’t responded, probably because I sent some embarrassing message rambling about disappearing people, totally downplaying the fact that his brother is gone. So I send an addendum:
I meant to say, I’m sorry about your brother.
But also, I’m sorry, because I don’t think this is related to your brother.
I know you’re looking for him. But I think, I think, you’ve stumbled upon something else. We’re missing something. Because it’s not just your room. It’s also a radio telescope at my house. I hate to ask this. I know how this will sound. The Internet, I know, predators, creeps, etc, etc. But. Locations would help.
I’m on the 37th parallel, north.