ten minutes later he would feel fine, magnificent, as fresh as grass. But now that kind of crying leaves him utterly exhausted. For the rest of the day his eyes will have an ugly red-rimmed look, with colorless flats of tightened skin underneath. Between classes he will hog the water fountain, drinking until his stomach strains at his jeans, but his throat will keep itching anyway. He won’t begin to feel better until he gets home and turns on the TV.
“The lunchroom,” he says to the man. “Big whoop.”
“Look closer.”
At first there is just a vague weaving of colors that keeps flickering behind itself, returning and disappearing, but then some warp seems to move through the room, and it all settles into place. Everywhere Kevin turns, pairs of figures are joined in what must be conversation. Some of them look like people, a few like animals, a few more like animals if animals were people: two gangling birds with long snaky necks, two mice sitting back on their haunches, two coppery-red toad-things, rows of polished feelers along their backs that look like paper clips bent partway open. Many of the shapes are hardly like bodies at all, but gadgets, magic tricks, science experiments. Kevin isn’t quite sure how he recognizes them as living creatures at all, only that he does.
Two spikes of beating light.
Two plumes of yellow-brown smoke that slip through some pinprick in the air.
Two curved sheets of paper marked with letters he can’t read.
A pattern of frost slicing its way through a similar but sparser pattern.
Some strange roughening in space next to a slightly more porous roughening.
Two plantlike sprays of greenery twitching with raindrops from an approaching storm.
Two mirrors reflecting everything except each other.
Why, Kevin wonders, didn’t he notice any of them earlier?
“Who are all these people?” he asks.
“They’re like you. Alive. This is their chance to say no.”
“But where did they come from?”
“Everywhere.”
“But I mean what are they doing
here
?”
“Here at CAC? That’s just a convenience, an illusion. Right now they’re probably wondering what you’re doing under the ocean or in the forest or between the solar rifts. Anyway, none of that matters. What matters is how you answer the question.”
Kevin cocks his head to one side.
The question?
“The question is, Would you like to press the escape switch?”
A hissing gradually takes the shape of the room, squaring out against the walls and the ceiling. It sounds as if a blank tape is playing directly into his ears. Usually Kevin feels smarter than this.
“I don’t understand.”
The man pivots his head until a vertebra in his neck pops. “Mmm. What I’m saying is that you’re alive, but you don’t have to be. You don’t have
to have been
, ever. It’s up to you. That’s part of the bargain. This is your chance—your one chance—to make up your mind.”
Two old women hobble through a door Kevin can’t locate once it closes. The man points to the bench where they weresitting and says, “See, that was her chance, just now,” then to a pair of threads winding around an invisible spool. “And this is his.”
Something inside Kevin lands suddenly. He takes a sharp breath and tells the man he understands, but not out loud. What should he do? The man repositions his glasses. “I know nearly as much about you as you do, but I’m here only to ask the question. You’ll have to answer it yourself.”
“But we just met.”
“Meaning how can I possibly know anything about you? Let’s try this.” He bows his head, and his scalp gleams through his hair. “Flash paper. Ice Pirates. Fool’s gold. Magnets. World War Three. Orange peel. Incorrigible. ‘It’s casual.’ ” None of it would make sense to anyone but Kevin. “And do you remember that E.T. thing you used to do, the way you’d extend your neck and flex it until the joints cracked? And then one day you heard Stacey Leavitt say,
“The lunchroom,” he says to the man. “Big whoop.”
“Look closer.”
At first there is just a vague weaving of colors that keeps flickering behind itself, returning and disappearing, but then some warp seems to move through the room, and it all settles into place. Everywhere Kevin turns, pairs of figures are joined in what must be conversation. Some of them look like people, a few like animals, a few more like animals if animals were people: two gangling birds with long snaky necks, two mice sitting back on their haunches, two coppery-red toad-things, rows of polished feelers along their backs that look like paper clips bent partway open. Many of the shapes are hardly like bodies at all, but gadgets, magic tricks, science experiments. Kevin isn’t quite sure how he recognizes them as living creatures at all, only that he does.
Two spikes of beating light.
Two plumes of yellow-brown smoke that slip through some pinprick in the air.
Two curved sheets of paper marked with letters he can’t read.
A pattern of frost slicing its way through a similar but sparser pattern.
Some strange roughening in space next to a slightly more porous roughening.
Two plantlike sprays of greenery twitching with raindrops from an approaching storm.
Two mirrors reflecting everything except each other.
Why, Kevin wonders, didn’t he notice any of them earlier?
“Who are all these people?” he asks.
“They’re like you. Alive. This is their chance to say no.”
“But where did they come from?”
“Everywhere.”
“But I mean what are they doing
here
?”
“Here at CAC? That’s just a convenience, an illusion. Right now they’re probably wondering what you’re doing under the ocean or in the forest or between the solar rifts. Anyway, none of that matters. What matters is how you answer the question.”
Kevin cocks his head to one side.
The question?
“The question is, Would you like to press the escape switch?”
A hissing gradually takes the shape of the room, squaring out against the walls and the ceiling. It sounds as if a blank tape is playing directly into his ears. Usually Kevin feels smarter than this.
“I don’t understand.”
The man pivots his head until a vertebra in his neck pops. “Mmm. What I’m saying is that you’re alive, but you don’t have to be. You don’t have
to have been
, ever. It’s up to you. That’s part of the bargain. This is your chance—your one chance—to make up your mind.”
Two old women hobble through a door Kevin can’t locate once it closes. The man points to the bench where they weresitting and says, “See, that was her chance, just now,” then to a pair of threads winding around an invisible spool. “And this is his.”
Something inside Kevin lands suddenly. He takes a sharp breath and tells the man he understands, but not out loud. What should he do? The man repositions his glasses. “I know nearly as much about you as you do, but I’m here only to ask the question. You’ll have to answer it yourself.”
“But we just met.”
“Meaning how can I possibly know anything about you? Let’s try this.” He bows his head, and his scalp gleams through his hair. “Flash paper. Ice Pirates. Fool’s gold. Magnets. World War Three. Orange peel. Incorrigible. ‘It’s casual.’ ” None of it would make sense to anyone but Kevin. “And do you remember that E.T. thing you used to do, the way you’d extend your neck and flex it until the joints cracked? And then one day you heard Stacey Leavitt say,
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