after that. If he were only this, a memory in someone else’s life, would he be able to hurt me in my sleep? Or would I be free?
I shove the thought away. I’m not going to run away. That isn’t the way to be free. And I’m never going to let the Archive into my head, when it would be so easy for them to erase more of me. Erase everything.
I need to remember.
NINE
I FETCH THE discarded book from my bedroom floor and manage to finish the reading for my government class as the Thursday morning sun peeks over the horizon. At least it will be fresh in my mind, I reason as I pack up my school bag. As long as I can get through three chapters of lit theory and a section of precalc during lunch, I’ll avoid falling behind on the second day of school.
Dad knocks short and crisp on my door and says, “Up!” and I do my best to sound groggy as I call back and zip my bag closed. I’m halfway through the living room when the TV catches my eyes. It’s that same story. Only this time, in addition to the photo of the trashed room, there’s a title in bold on the bottom of the screen.
Retired Judge Phillip Missing
A photo goes up beside the anchor’s face, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I recognize the room now, because I know the man they’re talking about.
I met him two days ago.
Mr. Phillip likes to keep things neat.
I notice before he even lets me in. His welcome mat is straight, and the planters on the porch are evenly spaced, and when he opens the door I can see the order carrying through into the entryway, where three pairs of shoes are lined up, laces out.
“You must be from Bishop’s,” he says, gesturing to the box tucked under my arm. It has a blue cursive B on the top. Until school starts, Mom has me running deliveries as payment for the new bike. Not that I mind. The fresh air helps me stay awake, and the riding helps me learn the city grid
—
which isn’t a grid at all here on the edges, but a mess of veering streets and neighborhoods, apartments and parks.
“Yes, sir,” I say, holding out the box. “A dozen chocolate chip.”
He nods and takes the box, patting his back pocket and then frowning a little. “Wallet must be in the kitchen,” he says. “Come on in.”
I hesitate. I was raised not to take candy from strangers or climb into vans or follow older men into their homes, but Mr. Phillip hardly looks threatening. And even if he is, I’m willing to bet I could take him.
I roll my wrist, listening to the bones crack as I cross the threshold. Mr. Phillip is already in the kitchen
—
which is clean enough to make me think he doesn’t use it
—
arranging the cookies on a plate. He leans in and inhales, and his eyes turn sad.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Not the same,” he says softly.
He tells me about his wife. She’s dead. He tells me how, before, the house always seemed to smell like cookies. He doesn’t even like to eat them. He just misses the smell. But it’s not the same.
We stand there in this unused kitchen, and I don’t know what to do. Part of me wishes Mr. Phillip had never asked me to come in, because I don’t need his feelings on top of mine. But I’m here now and I might be able to fix him, or at least glue a couple pieces back together. Finally I hold out my hand.
“Give me the box,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Here,” I say, taking the empty container from his hands and dumping the tray of cookies inside. “I’ll be back.”
An hour later I’m there again, and instead of a box I’m holding a Tupperware of cookie dough: about twelve cookies’ worth. I show him how to heat the oven, and I scoop a few clumps of dough onto a sheet and slide the sheet in. I set the timer and tell Mr. Phillip to follow me outside.
“You’ll notice the smell more,” I say, “when you go back in.”
Mr. Phillip seems genuinely touched.
“What’s your name?” he asks as we stand on the porch.
“Mackenzie Bishop,” I say.
“You didn’t have to
I shove the thought away. I’m not going to run away. That isn’t the way to be free. And I’m never going to let the Archive into my head, when it would be so easy for them to erase more of me. Erase everything.
I need to remember.
NINE
I FETCH THE discarded book from my bedroom floor and manage to finish the reading for my government class as the Thursday morning sun peeks over the horizon. At least it will be fresh in my mind, I reason as I pack up my school bag. As long as I can get through three chapters of lit theory and a section of precalc during lunch, I’ll avoid falling behind on the second day of school.
Dad knocks short and crisp on my door and says, “Up!” and I do my best to sound groggy as I call back and zip my bag closed. I’m halfway through the living room when the TV catches my eyes. It’s that same story. Only this time, in addition to the photo of the trashed room, there’s a title in bold on the bottom of the screen.
Retired Judge Phillip Missing
A photo goes up beside the anchor’s face, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I recognize the room now, because I know the man they’re talking about.
I met him two days ago.
Mr. Phillip likes to keep things neat.
I notice before he even lets me in. His welcome mat is straight, and the planters on the porch are evenly spaced, and when he opens the door I can see the order carrying through into the entryway, where three pairs of shoes are lined up, laces out.
“You must be from Bishop’s,” he says, gesturing to the box tucked under my arm. It has a blue cursive B on the top. Until school starts, Mom has me running deliveries as payment for the new bike. Not that I mind. The fresh air helps me stay awake, and the riding helps me learn the city grid
—
which isn’t a grid at all here on the edges, but a mess of veering streets and neighborhoods, apartments and parks.
“Yes, sir,” I say, holding out the box. “A dozen chocolate chip.”
He nods and takes the box, patting his back pocket and then frowning a little. “Wallet must be in the kitchen,” he says. “Come on in.”
I hesitate. I was raised not to take candy from strangers or climb into vans or follow older men into their homes, but Mr. Phillip hardly looks threatening. And even if he is, I’m willing to bet I could take him.
I roll my wrist, listening to the bones crack as I cross the threshold. Mr. Phillip is already in the kitchen
—
which is clean enough to make me think he doesn’t use it
—
arranging the cookies on a plate. He leans in and inhales, and his eyes turn sad.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Not the same,” he says softly.
He tells me about his wife. She’s dead. He tells me how, before, the house always seemed to smell like cookies. He doesn’t even like to eat them. He just misses the smell. But it’s not the same.
We stand there in this unused kitchen, and I don’t know what to do. Part of me wishes Mr. Phillip had never asked me to come in, because I don’t need his feelings on top of mine. But I’m here now and I might be able to fix him, or at least glue a couple pieces back together. Finally I hold out my hand.
“Give me the box,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Here,” I say, taking the empty container from his hands and dumping the tray of cookies inside. “I’ll be back.”
An hour later I’m there again, and instead of a box I’m holding a Tupperware of cookie dough: about twelve cookies’ worth. I show him how to heat the oven, and I scoop a few clumps of dough onto a sheet and slide the sheet in. I set the timer and tell Mr. Phillip to follow me outside.
“You’ll notice the smell more,” I say, “when you go back in.”
Mr. Phillip seems genuinely touched.
“What’s your name?” he asks as we stand on the porch.
“Mackenzie Bishop,” I say.
“You didn’t have to
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