Wendy and I start to get down from the wagon, but then Wendy hesitates, looking at Caedi.

“She’ll be fine,” says Ms. Armstrong. “I promise.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Well,” our liaison sighs. “I’d always planned to speak with you two the night before your parents visit but it doesn’t look like you’ll be sleeping any time soon so I was forced to, uh, pause the game?”

“This isn’t a game,” I say, sitting in front of the desk with Wendy, who grips my hand hard.

“No, it isn’t,” says Ms. Armstrong. “Of course it isn’t. I know that. It was a metaphor and an insensitive one, ill-timed. I apologize.”

“Me too,” I say. “We’re upset and I keep putting my foot in my mouth.”

“I’ve been trying for years to get him to marinate his socks,” says Wendy. It’s a favorite joke of hers and she’s delivered it by rote, robbing it of any humor it may have had.

It’s been a long, awful day.

“Of course,” says Ms. Armstrong. “Well, this actually puts a bit of strain on the system so we got to get a move on. I’ll come straight to the point. Normally, before the first family visit, we offer our clients a choice.” She takes a breath. “Whether or not to remember their last day on Earth.”

Wendy gasps but I’ve kind of been expecting something like this. I mean, it was bound to come up sooner or later, and right before our parents come makes sense.

“They might have questions,” I say.

Ms. Armstrong nods. “Some will be what you’d expect. What was it like? Did you suffer? Did you see your life pass before your eyes? Was Jesus there? Was He happy to see you? That kind of thing.”

Wendy smiles.

I say, “Normally.”

“Yes,” says Ms. Armstrong. She makes a face like she’s tasted something bitter. “Circumstances have changed. The authorities have… questions.”

“About our deaths?” says Wendy.

“Yes.”

“Oh my God,” says Wendy.

“They are pushing,” says Ms. Armstrong. “To have you remember so that they can ask you things. I should tell you that I don’t like this. Not a bit. They are messing with your autonomy. Look, you may know that a bit of memory loss is common for traumatic events. We actually use that to help lock those memories out. We find it’s healthier to give you time to adjust and assimilate into your new environment before you remember. It gives the whole death thing a bit of perspective. Makes it easier to take. Your brains help us do that. You should know. There’s no way to have you remember only part of it. If you cooperate, you’ll get the whole kit and caboodle.”

She leans forward. “Our bodies are made to forget physical pain. I know that doesn’t really make much sense to most people until I tell them that we don’t forget the emotional variety. If you think hard about a time someone really trashed your feelings, it can be like it just happened to you even if the real event happened ten years ago, agreed?”

Wend and I look at each other and then nod.

“It wouldn’t serve any purpose if your body remembered what it was like, exactly, when you broke your arm in seventh grade, but there’s an evolutionary purpose to remember how that bitch Natalie Tannebaum made fun of your prom dress. Your arm healed and isn’t in any danger any more. Fucking Natalie might still be around and an enemy. Better you remember the pain she caused you so you take precautions. Make sense?”

We nod.

“So, when I tell you that remembering will hurt, you understand. You died, my babies. It was sudden, as you may have guessed. If you don’t want to do it, we won’t force you. Our lawyers think their lawyers might try, but our guys are sharks. It’ll be a fight but one we’ll happily take on if you want to refuse. Dammit, we'll fight like hell.”

“Who’s ‘they?’” I ask.

She shifts her weight in the chair. “They’d rather I didn’t say,” she says. “If you choose to cooperate, we’ll do what we can to help you, of course. We can’t do this kind of thing." She gestures expansively at the frozen world. "And we can't give you extra time in game. It'll all be done while you sleep, as per usual, and you'll have some trouble. Knowing. But I’m so glad you met Caedi and that she knows a little about what’s going on with you two not being from here. You can talk to her. Both of you. And you should.”

Wendy gives a little cough. the look on her face is odd. I can't read it.

I say, “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” Ms. Armstrong lies.

Goddammit, what was going on between Caedi and Wendy? Things had been off between them ever since Sinda and the alley. Are they fighting? I hate not knowing and not being able to figure it out but I said I wouldn’t ask or pry and I won’t break my word. I’m getting close to asking Wendy to release me from it, though. That choice, like this one, would be something from which there’d be no return. Is it always better to know? I've always thought so, but I'm scared. 

“So,” says Ms. Armstrong. “What do you think?”

“You can’t tell us more?” I ask.

“No.”

“How’s that fair?” I say. “Being asked to make a choice with less than all the data?”

“It sucks, Mark,” she says. “But in a way, it’s your own fault, taking that five in intelligence. If I tell you too much you’ll figure it out and that’ll screw up everything.”

“How?”

“I just told you I can’t say.”

“We’ll do it,” says Wendy. “No, I’ll do it. That'll be enough, right? I was there too, wasn't I?”

Ms. Armstrong frowns and pushes out her bottom lip. “I hadn’t thought of that—.”

“No,” I say. “No, if we do this we should do this together. So we face it together and help each other.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t then,” says Wendy.

“Why did you say you want to?” I ask.

“Because there’s a question,” says Wendy. “Maybe somebody’s responsible. Someone skimped on some wiring and people are trying to sue? Maybe we saw something? Maybe we saw who killed us, Mark. I’m happy here, with you and everybody. I like it here but something was taken from us. And not just us. Our parents and family and friends. Maybe there were others and we’re the only ones they can talk to, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. I wish Wendy hadn’t thought of that. I can’t stand to see her in pain. It panics me. “Okay, then. If you’re sure.”

“I am but you don’t have to,” she says.

“And what if I saw something you didn’t? What if they need my testimony?” I say. “What do I tell your mom and dad when you’re all upset about how it happened but I’m clueless? It’s not fair to ask you do this by yourself and I can’t let you, Wendy. I can’t.”

Wendy suppresses a sob. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

 

 

I get to the rally later than I want. The announcement for it I got in my email tells me to park in this big parking garage but it’s clear across campus from the event and I don’t know the campus. I don’t go to this school. I go to can’t read, can’t write, Kent State. I’ve got my phone out but I think the damn thing still thinks I’m driving.

Anyway, when I finally get there things are already in full swing with a few guys over there banging out a rhythm on some buckets and people with protest signs. I forgot mine at home, but hey, I did put an “I’m with the banned” bumper sticker on the back of my car, so there’s that. The asshole president of the university here is an extremist and has allowed some national group to get some books banned. From a university. It’s insane, right?

I mean, how many groups of folks that got together to ban or even burn books wound up being on the right side of history? It’s always seemed to me too that what these people are really about is banning certain ideas and the people associated with them, marginalizing them by letting them know that the people do not approve. You know, assholes.

So when I heard about it I decided I’d drive out and join.

I've just made it to the library where the demonstration is centered when my phone dings with a notification.

It’s a text from Wendy. “Where are you at?” she’s written.

“At the protest,” I type out.

“Yeah, I know. Where?”

“In front of the library.”

“Where?”

“Wait. Are you here?”

We’d discussed coming together but we talked about it over at her parents’ place while I was helping her do her laundry. Her dad forbade her to go and she’d promised him she wouldn’t.

“I’ve got a putty knife if you want it for that bumpersticker,” her dad had said.

I forced a laugh. “That’s okay, Mr. Foster,” I told him. “I got one of those that come off with a little soap and water. I’m only doing it to fit in, after all. All the peer pressure and stuff?”

He snorted and walked off.

“Jerk,” said Wendy.

“You should be nicer,” I said. “That’s your dad.”

So I’m surprised that she’s here at the rally.

We meet up and march and sing songs and chant things while shaking our fists. It’s weird because just about everybody’s pissed and passionate about the subject but still having a good time. The police are there watching along with some TV news vans, and there are some counter-protesters. The back and forth between the us and the counter-twits is filled with invective but nobody takes anything too far. No fights start, but I  do my best to keep us well away from both the cops and the right wing loons, thinking that her dad would go nuts just finding out she was here. If she came home with a black eye or something, I’d be a dead man.

Wendy told him she was studying with a friend.

The whole demonstration was scheduled to run from three in the afternoon to nine o’clock and Wendy and I stay the whole time.

On the way home, we pull through a fast food drive thru and I take my shitty old Chevy out onto the highway toward home. It used to be my grandfather’s car who gave it to me just before he passed. It’s a bronze 1995 Chevrolet Cavalier with just over seventy-eight thousand miles on it that sat outside for fifteen years or so. It’s a little rusty but it runs fine. I’m glad to have it.

At first I think the headlights growing behind  us are speeding up to pass, but he keeps getting closer and not getting over. I’m clueless even as the big pickup’s grill fills my rearview and then my car bucks and bounces as he slams into us from behind.

Wendy screams and spills her pop all over herself.

The steering wheel tries to pull us to the right but I manage to haul us back into our lane without overcompensating. As it is, the back of the car fishtails this way and that. Our tires are howling.

There’s no front license plate and the truck is one of those big, dark Dodge Rams with one of those extra protected frames bolted on the front. I don’t know what they’re called. The irony of the name isn’t lost on me as he kicks on his high beams and plows into us again. It makes the same sound it did the first time, like someone popping a blown up paper bag made of fiberglass, metal, and glass.

I’m surprised at how calm I am. I know that if I lose it, this guy, who’s trying to kill us, will succeed. I have to hold on and find it’s easy to do. I have to protect Wendy.

The third time the Ram tries to smash into us I veer to the left.

The front of the truck misses us by inches, but then the maniac turns into us, clipping our rear bumper. It’s a pit maneuver right out of a television police drama and suddenly we're sideways.

The Chevy flips a whole rotation before it hits and then it cartwheels along its axis over and over and over again. I hear the worst sound. Wendy’s endless scream punctuated by impacts until something wet blocks her windpipe. Things break in me. Too many things. My hands are on the wheel. I’m still trying to steer.

 

 

We sit a long time in front of Ms. Armstrong’s desk in that clearing, holding each other, with both of our liaison’s arms around us and her cheek resting on my head or or Wendy’s as she rubs our backs.

I don’t remember much after the crash. There are snippets of white hallways, bright lights, astringent smells, alarms, and hurried talking. The last thing I remember is something I hear. My mother’s rising shriek of horror.

We were murdered.