Chapter 29 Warner #2
“Haider told me about it.”
“Haider?” I echo. “Haider, who lives on the other side of the world? That Haider?”
My pager buzzes again.
And again.
“How would Haider know more about finding a dumpling restaurant than we would?” I ask him. “And since when do you keep in
touch with Haider?”
Kenji makes a face. “I never stopped being in touch with Haider. Haider is still trying to teach me Arabic. I talk to Haider
all the time. Unlike you, I actually answer his messages. You didn’t even say happy birthday to him last month, by the way. And his feelings are still hurt.”
I sigh loudly.
“Anyway, Haider heard about this new spot because apparently it’s right next to that huge mural of your face.”
I straighten, alarmed. “Which huge mural of my face?”
“Or, no, wait, not your face. I think it’s the one where you’re, like, flying? Or maybe the one where you’re, like, naked
on a horse.”
Cold mortification moves through my body. “That one is across town.”
“Isn’t there one where you’ve got flowers coming out of your mouth?”
“They’re knives.”
“No,” he says. “Not that one. There’s another one where you and J both have, like, flowers coming out of your mouths, and
it’s like you’re kissing, but it’s just, like, the flowers are kissing? You know what I mean?”
“No.” My jaw tenses.
“James told me there’s an entire city block that’s done up in, like, a comic strip, where you’re half man, half robot, and
you save the neighborhood from a horde of bloodthirsty vampires. But I haven’t seen that one yet.”
I shoot a hard look at Kenji. “Thank you for reminding me why I never go outside.”
A group of raucous kids nearly barrels into us on the sidewalk, all emanating sweat and insecurity, and I try to brace myself.
Try to hold my breath.
The one good thing about spending time in the Ship District is that most of these teenagers are too young to know who I am.
Or if they do, they don’t seem to care.
Many were toddlers or young children during the fall of The Reestablishment. What they know of our modern moment is mostly
story and flashes of memory. If anything, this generation is more fascinated with James than any of the rest of us.
He’s their true peer; an actual contemporary.
He was born and raised in Sector 45—which once comprised much of this region—and he grew up on these streets alongside many
of these kids. His life story, as a result, is of enormous interest to them. For years there’s been global gossip dedicated
specifically to musings on his personal life, which made adolescence particularly uncomfortable for him.
It’s part of the reason he and I both avoid places like this.
I did my best to shield him from public scrutiny as he was growing up, but it continues to be an unrelenting task. I have
no doubt that raising a child of my own under this glaring spotlight will prove its own nightmare—
I take a tight breath at the thought, cutting it off at the root.
I turn my eyes toward a glowing streetlamp, its warm light attracting an eclipse of moths. The flutter of their wings mirrors
the sudden palpitations of my heart. I seldom allow myself to think about fatherhood as anything other than an abstract concept.
Ella is far more optimistic about the outcome of her pregnancy than I am.
“Hey,” says Kenji, looking away from shop signs to study my face. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“Oh, shit,” Kenji says without warning. He elbows me, jolting me, and I have to remind myself not to kill him. He’s suddenly wheezing with laughter.
“What?” I demand. “What is it?”
Kenji points at something in the near distance.
I follow his direction to a coffee shop window illuminated under the glare of an overhead neon sign. Ornate scrollwork decorates
the outer edges of the glass, all rendered in chalk marker; neat, handwritten text occupies the negative space in the center.
It reads—
JAMES, COME BACK AND REJECT ME SO I CAN FINALLY MOVE ON
Under that, in smaller type:
It’s been 58 days since James Alexander Anderson drank coffee here.
I nearly roll my eyes. Kenji is still laughing.
“What do you think?” says Kenji. “Should I go in there? You think I should tell them he’s in love with a serial killer?”
I’m officially out of patience. “I’m going home,” I say, and start walking.
My pager buzzes again.
“Wait,” says Kenji, catching up to me. “Wait, look—the problem is, I already told J we’d be getting her dumplings. She’s expecting
dumplings. So we need to find the dumplings—”
“What?” I stiffen. “When did you promise her dumplings?”
“This morning.”
“But you asked me about this half an hour ago.”
“I know.”
“Kenji.”
“What?” He rolls his eyes at me before returning his focus to the street, still trying to read shop signs as we make our way
down the sidewalk. “I knew you’d say yes. You always say yes when Juliette is involved. Hell, if I told you J said we needed
to go to the moon to pick up some rocks you’d probably figure out how to build a spaceship.”
“A rocket.”
“What?”
“A rocket,” I say to him. “Not a spaceship. Spaceships aren’t real. Spaceships are for aliens.”
“Okay, you’re literally proving my point.”
I duck to avoid a low-hanging branch. “No, I’m taking issue with your analogy. You’re acting as if it’s an impossible thought.
But we possess the technology and potential capability to launch a space program. We’ve just focused our energies on other
things—”
“Bro. It was a simple question. A hypothetical question.”
“You never asked me a question.”
“Fine.” He crosses his arms, coming to a halt.
We turn to face each other.
“Here’s the question,” he says. “If J asked you to go to the moon for her, would you go to the moon?”
“Yes.”
Kenji barks out a laugh, his astonishment loud. “You make me sick, you know that? I’m disgusted.”
He’s not disgusted.
In fact, he’s feeling mournful. I can easily imagine the direction of his thoughts. The source of all his anxiety.
She’s currently babysitting an assassin.
My pager buzzes.
Then buzzes again.
“You’re not going to check those messages?” says Kenji. “All that buzzing is starting to drive me crazy.”
I finally relent with a sigh.
I’ve given myself a nearly twenty-minute reprieve; waiting any longer to check on the status of things might prove dangerous.
I unearth the pager from my interior pocket and, as expected, I have to scroll through an endless stream of messages from
Adam before I can get to anything else.
My eyes catch on a few as I blow past them—
What is the vial????????? vial of what???. Why don’t I know about the vial?
Your brother ois an idiot
NAZEERA WAS GOIGNG TO LET HER KILL ME
WHER THE HELL ARE UOU
—and I ignore the rest. A dozen others are administrative. Two messages are from Nazeera.
One is from my wife.
I like the name Lily for a girl. :) But if it’s a boy we should name him Aaron. Then I’ll have two of you. :) :)
A sharp pain pierces me through the chest. For a second, I can’t breathe.
“You good?” says Kenji, studying me. I feel his concern rising. He rests a hand on my back, and I manage not to flinch.
“Yes,” I say, looking up. I glance again at the messages, distracted. My heart is pounding.
Two still unread from Nazeera:
Looks like Rosabelle is ready to start talking
You should get over here now
I send off a response: Coming
She answers immediately: Do you want waffles
I delete all the messages except for Ella’s. Hers I’m still staring at, my heart beating faster, when I feel Kenji’s anxiety
rise up around me again.
“Bro, what’s going on? Why do you look so weird right now?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, pulling myself together. “Nazeera says Rosabelle has started talking. She says we should get over there
now.”
“Nazeera said that?” Kenji raises his brows. “She said it just like that?”
I put the pager away. “Yes.”
He shoots me a loaded look. “Did she say you and Kenji should get over here? Or did she say you should get over here?”
“She said we should both head over there.”
His jaw drops open. “You dirty, filthy liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Let me see your pager.”
“No.”
“Hand it over.”
“No.”
“I will reach right into your pocket, bro; I am not afraid of you—”
My pager buzzes again, and I reach for it automatically. Defensively. Kenji crowds me, trying to read over my shoulder, and
I start walking to get away from him.
When I scan the message, I come to a violent stop.
“Who is it?” Kenji says, catching up to me. “Is that her? Tell her if she wants me to come over she should page me herself.
No, you know what—tell her I’m not coming—”
I look up at Kenji, not seeing him.
My mind is already working too fast.
“Whoa, what just happened?” Kenji says, his face falling. “I was just joking. I just wanted to see what she’d say.”
“We have to go,” I say.
“What? Now?”
“Yes.”
“No dumplings?”
“No dumplings.” I meet his eyes. “We’ll have to stop by the armory on our way.”
Kenji changes—hardens—in an instant. “Where are we headed?”
“Evidence of enemy transport has been identified at the docks.”