What does it mean to be saved? Is it a version of yourself from years ago, perfectly preserved, so that you can return to it one day, unblemished, no matter what insults have happened since? No matter the mistakes and errors and blows and sins?
Or is it the opposite: overwriting all past versions of yourself, so that everything before has been wiped away, leaving only the newest, latest version to go forward and sin no more?
Or is the simplest explanation true: that there is no such thing as salvation? Only a series of files, disjointed, slices of time that—when strung together—give the approximation of life. The way a flip-book gives the illusion of motion.
It would be comforting to think that there were hidden variables—that the universe was smooth and continuous, and not, at base, a series of right angles stitched together.
But Charlie didn’t think anymore that was true. There were gaps. Rough edges. Every lullaby could be broken down into ones and zeros. Every landscape was at base a cloud of random particles. The real question was, Could you know that and still find the landscape beautiful?
Charlie awoke in the hospital to find Mr. Burklander sitting there, watching him.
“Don’t try to move. You’re still very weak.”
Charlie wanted to ask, “How long have I been here,” but his throat was too dry.
Mr. B. filled a paper cup with water and handed it to him.
Charlie drank, and his eyes closed again for a moment.
“Your dad’s getting some food. He’ll be back soon.”
“What happened?”
“To you?”
Charlie nodded.
“You’re hurt.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were on the side of the road. Out by Westbrook. Somebody called 911.”
Charlie nodded slowly, trying to pull up the last thing he could remember.
Mr. Burklander held Charlie’s gaze. “Peter was a bad kid.”
Was.
“I don’t doubt he was into some bad things, and maybe those things led to bad ends.”
Charlie didn’t respond. He just held Mr. B.’s gaze.
“I don’t think you wanted those things to happen.”
Charlie wasn’t going to say anything, but then he remembered Mr. B. collapsing to the floor, his heart jolted from within.
Charlie was unable to control himself and his eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. You don’t deserve to hear it, but I know you are.”
They sat quietly for a while, then Mr. B. got up.
“I’ll let you rest.” He paused by the door, then decided to add something. “The older you get, you start seeing patterns. Maybe it’s early dementia, who knows? Kids and their clubs. Hidden worlds. There’s always more to it than we know. Anyway, story for another time.”
Mr. B. gave one of those corny teacher’s winks, but his face was far more weary than that. He left and let the door shut softly behind him.
Eddie Ramirez was at home when his doorbell rang, and Mrs. Morrissey was there. It was jarring to see the principal who expelled you at your house, but she came in and gathered with Eddie and his parents around the coffee table in their living room.
“The good news is,” Mrs. Morrissey said, “that we can make this right. Kenny has turned himself in and taken full responsibility for the prank. He didn’t intend for your son to get caught up in it. The consequences will be severe. He’ll have to repeat his senior year, and of course this will affect his college applications. It will be a significant stain on his permanent record. At the same time, we’ll make a full explanation to the colleges of Eddie’s choice, and we’ll make sure that they understand the expulsion has been fully expunged and withdrawn.”
“What about scholarships?” his mom asked.
“It shouldn’t affect any scholarships. We’ll make sure of that. They’ll know this wasn’t Eddie’s fault in any way.” Mrs. Morrissey’s smile tightened. “Now, if this resolution sounds acceptable, we do have these papers that the district’s lawyers have asked us to share with you, releasing us from any lawsuits or things of that nature. If you’d like a chance to review with counsel of your choice…”
Mrs. Ramirez took the pen from Elaine Morrissey’s hand. “This will be fine.” Mrs. Ramirez signed away her anger and let a sense of peace—of intense relief—well up inside her.
Around the same time, Mr. Walker found an envelope filled with cash in his mailbox. He had no idea why. He couldn’t know that Vanhi had sold her bass pedal, or that Kenny and Charlie had delivered the envelope to his tiny, boarded house in the dead of night. He couldn’t even count the money. Later that day, Mrs. Morrissey would call and offer him his job back. It was baffling. All he could do was look up and down the street, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, marveling at a plan larger than himself that he could scarcely comprehend.
The funeral for Peter Quine was a small affair. His father was there, wearing sunglasses so it was hard to read his face. The obituary made vague references to Peter’s troubled life, without mentioning his expulsion or arrest or suicide. Rather it just said that he had finally found peace in the arms of his Maker. The priest, who didn’t know Peter and hadn’t met him, was a little more direct, speaking of the troubles and temptations of today’s youth, particularly online.
Charlie showed up, feeling strangely calm. His arm was in a sling.
He wanted to feel guilty. That would be the human thing to do. But in truth, he didn’t. He felt guilty about a million other things. But for dragging a semiconscious Peter to the edge of a rooftop and casting him off—by far the worst thing anyone Charlie knew had ever done—he couldn’t muster regret. In the moment, an upside-down moment to be sure, it had felt like the right thing to do.
Kenny and Vanhi were at the service, too. Alex was in a psychiatric hospital, getting help. He’d been diagnosed with depression and an acute psychotic break. Medications might help. Therapy, too. The Vindicators had gone to visit, but they didn’t make it into the room. When they arrived, Alex’s father was already in there, cradling him, singing a song in another language, but it had the universal cadence of a lullaby. “My boy, my sweet, sweet boy,” he kept whispering between songs.
They couldn’t reconcile the man in front of them with the man who’d sent Alex to school with welts and bruises, limping and broken. But that was another relic of the Game: they didn’t even try. They watched quietly from a distance, then left.
After Peter’s funeral, the small crowd dispersed without fanfare. Charlie, Vanhi, and Kenny walked together through the grave sites. Vanhi walked with a cane, to keep weight off her injury as it healed. In typical Vanhi style, she’d picked a silver-topped wolf’s-head cane, which was, in her estimation, badass. They passed Peter’s dad, standing alone against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
“You were Peter’s friends?” he asked.
Charlie choked on the irony and couldn’t find words.
Kenny said, “Yes.”
“I don’t know you,” Peter’s dad said. “I wasn’t around much.”
The Vindicators didn’t know what to say, so they stood there awkwardly.
“Was he really that unhappy? You know, to do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said finally.
“He was in trouble, at school,” Kenny said. “I think that was it. I don’t think he was unhappy most of the time.”
The graceful answer seemed to give the dad some comfort. “I should have paid more attention. But, you know, he was always gonna do what he was gonna do. He had a will of his own.” The man shrugged. He still had the sunglasses on, and his face was still unreadable. “Thanks for coming.”
The Vindicators wound through the paths. The sky was bright and cheerful, an odd contrast to the graves. Charlie had told them everything. After the run-in with Peter’s father, Vanhi said, “Charlie, what you did…” He tried to stop her but she said, “You shouldn’t feel bad.”
They didn’t discuss it again.
After a while, Kenny said, “Should we do it now?”
Charlie and Vanhi nodded.
They pulled their Aziteks out.
“I peeked last night,” Kenny said. “They don’t work anymore. They’re just blank.”
“You mean clear,” Charlie said.
Kenny laughed. “Yeah. Right. Clear.”
One by one, they put their Aziteks on the ground. Together, they pressed their feet down, grinding them into pieces. Vanhi used her cane to crush her lenses.
Charlie kicked the remnants into the bushes.
“Okay.” Charlie readied himself. “You sure you guys are up for this?”
“We should have done it a long time ago,” Vanhi said.
“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Let’s go.”
They wound together through the paths, until they came to the gravestone that read ALICIA LAKE. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.
They stared at it, together. Vanhi wove her fingers through Charlie’s hand. Kenny did the same on the other side. They looked for a while, without talking.
“It hurts every day,” Charlie said.
“We’re here.” Vanhi nested her chin on his shoulder.