box, made of steel with a strong lock. Then she took the memory and put it in the box.
She took the board and wrote:
—SOMEBODY HURT ME THERE ONCE TOO.
The girl studied the board with the same guarded expression. Perhaps ten seconds passed. She took up the chalk again.
—SECRET?
—YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON I EVER TOLD.
The girl’s face was changing. Something was letting go.
Sara wrote: WE ARE THE SAME. SARA IS GOOD. PIM IS GOOD. NOT OUR FAULT.
A film of tears appeared in the surface of the girl’s eyes. A single drop edged over the barrier and spilled down her cheek, cutting a river in the dirt. Her lips were closed; the muscles of her neck and jaw grew taut, then began to quiver. A strange new sound entered the room. It was a kind of growl, like an animal’s. It felt like something fighting to get out.
And then it did. The girl opened her mouth and released a howl that seemed to shatter the very idea of human language, distilling it to a single sustained vowel of pain. Sara wrapped her in a tight embrace. Pim was wailing, shaking, fighting to break free, but Sara wouldn’t let her. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go.” And she held her that way until the girl was quiet again, and for a long time after.
9
The capitol building, housed in what had once been Texas First Trust Bank—the name was still engraved in the building’s limestone fascia—was just a short walk from the school. A directory in the lobby listed the various departments: Housing Authority, Public Health, Agriculture and Commerce, Printing and Engraving. Sanchez’s office was located on the second floor. Peter ascended the stairs, which opened onto a second open area with a desk, behind which sat a Domestic Security officer in an unnaturally clean uniform. Peter felt suddenly embarrassed to be dressed in his ratty work clothes, carrying a bag full of rattling tools and nails.
“Help you?”
“I’m here to see President Sanchez. I have an appointment.”
“Name?” His eyes had returned to his desk; he was filling out some kind of form.
“Peter Jaxon.”
It was like a light going on in the man’s face. “You’re Jaxon?”
Peter dipped his head.
“Holy smokes.” The man just sat there, awkwardly staring. It had been some time since Peter had gotten this kind of reaction. On the other hand, he rarely met anybody new these days. Never, in fact.
“Maybe you could let somebody know?” Peter said finally.
“Right.” The officer popped from his chair. “Just a second. I’ll tell them you’re here.”
Peter noted the word “them.” Who else would be attending the meeting? For that matter, why was he here at all? In the hours of mulling over the president’s note, he’d come up empty. Maybe it was just as Caleb had suggested and they really did want him back in the Army. If so, it was going to be a short conversation.
“You can come right back, Mr. Jaxon.”
The officer took Peter’s tool bag and led him down a long hallway. Sanchez’s door was open. She rose from behind her desk as Peter entered: a small woman with mostly white hair, sharp features, and a strong gaze. A second person, a man with a tight, bristly beard, was seated across from her. He looked familiar, though Peter couldn’t place him.
“Mr. Jaxon, it’s good to see you.” Sanchez stepped around her desk and extended her hand.
“Madam President. It’s an honor.”
“Please,” she said, “it’s Vicky. Let me introduce you to Ford Chase, my chief of staff.”
“I believe we’ve met, Mr. Jaxon.”
Now Peter remembered: Chase had attended the inquest after the destruction of the bridge on the Oil Road. The memory was unpleasant; he’d taken an instant disliking to the man. Compounding Peter’s distrust, Chase was wearing a necktie, the most incomprehensible article of clothing in the history of the world.
“And of course you know General Apgar,” Sanchez said.
Peter turned to see his
She took the board and wrote:
—SOMEBODY HURT ME THERE ONCE TOO.
The girl studied the board with the same guarded expression. Perhaps ten seconds passed. She took up the chalk again.
—SECRET?
—YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON I EVER TOLD.
The girl’s face was changing. Something was letting go.
Sara wrote: WE ARE THE SAME. SARA IS GOOD. PIM IS GOOD. NOT OUR FAULT.
A film of tears appeared in the surface of the girl’s eyes. A single drop edged over the barrier and spilled down her cheek, cutting a river in the dirt. Her lips were closed; the muscles of her neck and jaw grew taut, then began to quiver. A strange new sound entered the room. It was a kind of growl, like an animal’s. It felt like something fighting to get out.
And then it did. The girl opened her mouth and released a howl that seemed to shatter the very idea of human language, distilling it to a single sustained vowel of pain. Sara wrapped her in a tight embrace. Pim was wailing, shaking, fighting to break free, but Sara wouldn’t let her. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go.” And she held her that way until the girl was quiet again, and for a long time after.
9
The capitol building, housed in what had once been Texas First Trust Bank—the name was still engraved in the building’s limestone fascia—was just a short walk from the school. A directory in the lobby listed the various departments: Housing Authority, Public Health, Agriculture and Commerce, Printing and Engraving. Sanchez’s office was located on the second floor. Peter ascended the stairs, which opened onto a second open area with a desk, behind which sat a Domestic Security officer in an unnaturally clean uniform. Peter felt suddenly embarrassed to be dressed in his ratty work clothes, carrying a bag full of rattling tools and nails.
“Help you?”
“I’m here to see President Sanchez. I have an appointment.”
“Name?” His eyes had returned to his desk; he was filling out some kind of form.
“Peter Jaxon.”
It was like a light going on in the man’s face. “You’re Jaxon?”
Peter dipped his head.
“Holy smokes.” The man just sat there, awkwardly staring. It had been some time since Peter had gotten this kind of reaction. On the other hand, he rarely met anybody new these days. Never, in fact.
“Maybe you could let somebody know?” Peter said finally.
“Right.” The officer popped from his chair. “Just a second. I’ll tell them you’re here.”
Peter noted the word “them.” Who else would be attending the meeting? For that matter, why was he here at all? In the hours of mulling over the president’s note, he’d come up empty. Maybe it was just as Caleb had suggested and they really did want him back in the Army. If so, it was going to be a short conversation.
“You can come right back, Mr. Jaxon.”
The officer took Peter’s tool bag and led him down a long hallway. Sanchez’s door was open. She rose from behind her desk as Peter entered: a small woman with mostly white hair, sharp features, and a strong gaze. A second person, a man with a tight, bristly beard, was seated across from her. He looked familiar, though Peter couldn’t place him.
“Mr. Jaxon, it’s good to see you.” Sanchez stepped around her desk and extended her hand.
“Madam President. It’s an honor.”
“Please,” she said, “it’s Vicky. Let me introduce you to Ford Chase, my chief of staff.”
“I believe we’ve met, Mr. Jaxon.”
Now Peter remembered: Chase had attended the inquest after the destruction of the bridge on the Oil Road. The memory was unpleasant; he’d taken an instant disliking to the man. Compounding Peter’s distrust, Chase was wearing a necktie, the most incomprehensible article of clothing in the history of the world.
“And of course you know General Apgar,” Sanchez said.
Peter turned to see his
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