Dark Eden by Patrick Carman Page A

dark to see, so I turned on the basement light. When I went back, the song was over and I started it again. A mindless tune, really, but it was growing on me. I could see why Keith liked the way it blocked out the rest of the world.
    There was a set of metal shelves next to the electrical panel I’d only glanced at before. A tarp, caked with dirt, was stuffed into the bottom shelf like a giant wadded-up Kleenex. The second shelf was covered with old paint cans and mason jars filled with nails, screws, washers. The top shelf was harder to see, its surface above my sight line, but it looked like more of the same: some old coffee cans filled with things I didn’t care to look at, an oil pan, a lunch pail.
    The lunch pail caught my attention, and I felt surprised I hadn’t noticed it sooner. It was the big green kind a carpenter takes to a work site, rectangular at the bottom and curved on top. When I was a kid, I’d imagined myself with hammers and saws, building a house, carrying my lunch in just such an object. I reached up and lifted it by the handle.
    “Whoa, this thing’s heavy,” I said, setting it on the concrete floor with a weighty thunk . I picked it back up and looked at the bottom, where someone had used a thick black pen to write the word GORING in all caps. “Detroit Rock City” was coming to an end in my one earbud as I set the box back down, the car going ninety-five in the song, swerving in front of the oncoming semi. I popped the two rusty latches on the lunch pail and tipped open the top. Inside, wadded up in a tangled mess, was the one thing I’d wanted more than anything else.
    Headphones.
    Not earbuds but real headphones, big ones that would stick out on the sides of my head like giant monkey ears. I took them out, letting the glob of twirling cord flop out of the box.
    A Who song, “My Generation,” started playing in my ear, and I pulled out the earbud. Holding the end of the headphone cord in my hand, I examined three strange plugs, as wide as if they’d fit into a car cigarette lighter—their size a perfect match to the holes in the wall of monitors. I was fast on my feet, my shoes sliding as I rounded the corner. When I reached the bomb shelter, I untangled the long, thick coil that led from the headphones to the connectors.
    “Come on; work. Give me something I can use,” I said, placing the headphones over my ears. They were so old that the plastic on the wide ear coverings was cracked and brittle. And they were big, so big, my hoodie wouldn’t fit over the top without stretching. Not the most comfortable pair of headphones I’d ever worn, but they were one of a kind. They were made for the bomb shelter monitors, and this I knew, because the three connectors snapped into the holes in the wall with ease.
    I was plugged in.
    Now all I needed was a system that actually worked.
    I stood at the wall of monitors, cycling through all four buttons, but there was almost nothing. A slight humming noise, like electricity running through power lines overhead, buzzed in my ears.
    I looked at my watch, 11:04 PM . If Marisa was trying to send me a message, I couldn’t see it. I set the headphones on the cot and went into the basement, where I turned off the light and put the green lunch pail back where I’d found it. When I returned, I dialed down the light in the bomb shelter and pushed the white G -for-girls button. I put the headphones back on and sat down on the rickety cot, waiting.
    Ten minutes later I fell asleep.
     
    Kate’s head hurts.
    She hasn’t come back to see me. How’s she doing otherwise?
    Great. She went to bed early, like 10:30. She was tired, but different.
    Different how?
    She’s not afraid anymore.
    How do you know for sure?
    I know what it looks like in a girl. She’s cured.
     
    My eyes came open and I moved, but I couldn’t hear the squeaky springs on the cot. My ears felt smashed and hot, and there were voices.
     
    That’s very good news, Marisa. Are you