Icons by Margaret Stohl

.
    W E MAY NEED IT .

11
TOGETHER AGAIN
    In the darkness I hear a sound, something knocking at a door. I try to answer, try to just open my eyes, but I cannot.
    It’s the Padre
, I think.
I’ve slept through my chores. The pigs must be hungry.
Then I drift back into the dark, knowing that sometimes even the pigs must wait.
    Ro will do it.
    I can depend on Ro.
    The darkness is thick and soft and warm. It reassures me that I am right, and then I am gone.
    Later, I feel someone shaking me. It must be Bigger. I must be in the way of the stove.
    I open my eyes. I am not in the Mission. I am staring at the door of Examination Facility #9B. I am on thefloor, holding on to the air vent with one hand. Ro is on his knees, looking down at me, grabbing me by both arms.
    “Dol, wake up. Are you okay?” He’s dressed, at least in pants, though his hair is standing straight up. He has bruises under his eyes, and his hands are bandaged.
    “They must have given you something. I thought you’d never wake up.”
    He looks stricken. I watch his eyes while he waits for me to remember. The guard and the room and the horrible Colonel Catallus.
    I remember it all.
    I also know something he doesn’t. They didn’t drug me. They didn’t have to. The way I feel now—broken and empty and depleted—this is what happens when I let the feelings come. My hands and mouth and stomach and eyes are burning dry. I try to make my eyes come into sharper focus, but I can only see the wires reconnecting me to the hospital walls once again.
    I turn my head, slowly.
    A tray of food sits on a table next to the bed.
    I lift my hand. Caught between my fingers, I see the delicate gold chain of my mother’s necklace.
    It doesn’t matter.
    I’m not a daughter. Not anymore, and not to the Embassy. I’m a weapon, just like Ro.
    A single tear rolls down from the corner of my eye. I close them so I don’t have to see it fall.
    Then I feel Ro, warm as the lost stove in my lost kitchen, pulling himself down onto the floor beside me, leaning his head against my back.
    “Shh. I’m here, Dol. It’s okay. We’ll get out of this. I’ll find a way to get us home.”
    His big hand curls around my littler one, his thick arm around my thinner one. There is no cake on his face today, no twig in his hair.
    Once again I let myself fade into a faraway world where there are no babies screaming in cribs—no silent radios, no rag-doll fathers, no crossless mothers.
    And all the hearts are beating. Every last one.
    I hear the door click open, and bolt upright.
    I only have a moment to realize Ro is sleeping with his whole arm across my stomach, trapping me with half his body.
    Then the door is open and Lucas is standing over us.
    “Oh. Sorry. I—I didn’t realize I’d be interrupting.” I see his hand gesture, helplessly.
    I rub my eyes. “Lucas? What are you doing here?” I look at him, confused, and then look over to Ro.
    Ro’s snoring, one leg twitching. Probably chasing rabbits or Sympas in his dreams. I can smell the Ro-smell, thesweat and the dirty hair and the brown, tanned skin, from here. No matter how clean he gets, he still smells like mud and grass and the ocean.
    I turn slowly back to Lucas, who is bright red. I don’t want to look him in the eye.
    “You’re not interrupting. We had a hard time sleeping. After—everything.” I can’t bring myself to refer to my conversation with Colonel Catallus any more than that. I can feel my own eyes narrowing. “But I guess you know that.”
    I don’t have to explain. I remind myself Lucas has no reason to care about me, just as I have no reason to care about him.
    Ro turns over, snoring, which doesn’t help things.
    “Right. Obviously. He can’t sleep.” Lucas laughs, but he doesn’t smile.
    I lower my voice. It would not be good for anyone if Ro woke up now. “Can I help you with something, Lucas? Is there a reason you’re here?”
    “I’m sorry. About before.” He sounds anguished. “It’s