this. He remembered evenings when they would lie there in Hayden’s attic room, in bed together, playing Super Mario on that old Nintendo system, side by side holding their game pads and staringat the miniature TV screen on Hayden’s dresser. “Don’t worry, Miles,” Hayden said. “I’m taking care of everything.”
“That’s good,” Miles said.
Hayden had already been through “a battery” of psychologists and therapists, as their mother said. Various prescriptions. Olanzapine, haloperidol. But it didn’t matter, Hayden said.
“It’s not like I can tell anyone the truth,” Hayden said, and the MIDI music of Super Mario was burbling along. “You’re the only one I can talk to, Miles,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Miles said, mostly focused on the journey of his Mario across the screen. They were sitting there under the covers together, and Hayden slid over and stuck his ice-cold foot against Miles’s leg. Hayden’s hands and feet were always pale and freezing, bad circulation, and he was always sticking them under Miles’s clothes.
“Cut it out!” Miles said, and in the game a mushroom monster killed him. “Oh, man! Look what you made me do!”
But Hayden just gazed at him. “Pay attention, Miles,” he said, and Miles watched as the GAME OVER tablet came up onto the TV screen.
“What?” Miles said, and their eyes caught. That significant look, as if, Miles thought, as if he should
know
.
“I told them about Marc Spady,” Hayden said, and let out a soft breath. “I told them who Spady
was
, and what he did to us.”
“What are you talking about?” Miles said, and then Hayden looked up abruptly. Their mother was standing in the doorway. It was time for them to go to bed, and she had come to strap Hayden in.
Miles had arrived at last in California. This was the first time he had known Hayden’s location in quite a while. More than four years had passed. Miles didn’t even know what Hayden looked like, though since they were twins, he imagined that they still looked a lot alike, of course.
This was in late June, just after they had turned twenty-two, and their mother and Marc Spady were dead, and Miles had been roaming from job to job ever since he dropped out of college. He came to the end of I-70 in the middle of Utah, then followed I-15 south toward Las Vegas.
When he came at last to the edge of Los Angeles, it was morning.
There was a Super 8 motel near Chinatown, and he slept the whole day on the thin-mattressed bed in his room, curtains closed tightly against the California sunshine, listening to the hum of the miniature refrigerator. It was after dark when he woke, and he groped around on the nightstand and found his car keys and the alarm clock and, at last, the phone.
“Hello?” Hayden said. It was hard to believe that he was only a few miles away. Miles had traced the path he would take to get to the neighborhood where he lived—up past Elysian Park toward the Silver Lake Reservoir.
“Hello?” Hayden said. “Miles?” And Miles deliberated.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s me.”
10
A n invader arrives in your computer and begins to glean the little diatoms of your identity.
Your name, your address, and so on; the various websites you visit as you wander through the Internet, your user names and passwords, your birth date, your mother’s maiden name, favorite color, the blogs and news sites you read, the items you shop for, the credit card numbers you enter into the databases—
Which isn’t necessarily
you
, of course. You are still an individual human being with a soul and a history, friends and relatives and coworkers who care about you, who can vouch for you: they recognize your face and your voice and your personality, and you are aware of your life as a continuous thread, a dependable unfolding story of yourself that you are telling to yourself, you wake up and feel fairly happy
—happy
in that bland, daily way that doesn’t even recognize itself as
“That’s good,” Miles said.
Hayden had already been through “a battery” of psychologists and therapists, as their mother said. Various prescriptions. Olanzapine, haloperidol. But it didn’t matter, Hayden said.
“It’s not like I can tell anyone the truth,” Hayden said, and the MIDI music of Super Mario was burbling along. “You’re the only one I can talk to, Miles,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Miles said, mostly focused on the journey of his Mario across the screen. They were sitting there under the covers together, and Hayden slid over and stuck his ice-cold foot against Miles’s leg. Hayden’s hands and feet were always pale and freezing, bad circulation, and he was always sticking them under Miles’s clothes.
“Cut it out!” Miles said, and in the game a mushroom monster killed him. “Oh, man! Look what you made me do!”
But Hayden just gazed at him. “Pay attention, Miles,” he said, and Miles watched as the GAME OVER tablet came up onto the TV screen.
“What?” Miles said, and their eyes caught. That significant look, as if, Miles thought, as if he should
know
.
“I told them about Marc Spady,” Hayden said, and let out a soft breath. “I told them who Spady
was
, and what he did to us.”
“What are you talking about?” Miles said, and then Hayden looked up abruptly. Their mother was standing in the doorway. It was time for them to go to bed, and she had come to strap Hayden in.
Miles had arrived at last in California. This was the first time he had known Hayden’s location in quite a while. More than four years had passed. Miles didn’t even know what Hayden looked like, though since they were twins, he imagined that they still looked a lot alike, of course.
This was in late June, just after they had turned twenty-two, and their mother and Marc Spady were dead, and Miles had been roaming from job to job ever since he dropped out of college. He came to the end of I-70 in the middle of Utah, then followed I-15 south toward Las Vegas.
When he came at last to the edge of Los Angeles, it was morning.
There was a Super 8 motel near Chinatown, and he slept the whole day on the thin-mattressed bed in his room, curtains closed tightly against the California sunshine, listening to the hum of the miniature refrigerator. It was after dark when he woke, and he groped around on the nightstand and found his car keys and the alarm clock and, at last, the phone.
“Hello?” Hayden said. It was hard to believe that he was only a few miles away. Miles had traced the path he would take to get to the neighborhood where he lived—up past Elysian Park toward the Silver Lake Reservoir.
“Hello?” Hayden said. “Miles?” And Miles deliberated.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s me.”
10
A n invader arrives in your computer and begins to glean the little diatoms of your identity.
Your name, your address, and so on; the various websites you visit as you wander through the Internet, your user names and passwords, your birth date, your mother’s maiden name, favorite color, the blogs and news sites you read, the items you shop for, the credit card numbers you enter into the databases—
Which isn’t necessarily
you
, of course. You are still an individual human being with a soul and a history, friends and relatives and coworkers who care about you, who can vouch for you: they recognize your face and your voice and your personality, and you are aware of your life as a continuous thread, a dependable unfolding story of yourself that you are telling to yourself, you wake up and feel fairly happy
—happy
in that bland, daily way that doesn’t even recognize itself as
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