59. September 10, 2202 Boston, Massachusetts
Oliver wakes in an almost dark; the only light is the dim glow of machine monitors and the beam of a lamp over the recliner in the corner.
Theo dozes there, cast in a harsh white light that deepens the shadows under his eyes and the worry lines across his brow.
Or maybe that has nothing to do with lamplight.
His heart plummets to his guts. He’s left her without a goodbye, without a plan to see her again.
The reality hits him like an icy wave, breathtaking and brutal.
I always wait for you.
Theo sits up, rubs sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. “How do you feel?”
Like his brain is about to implode and his body has been hit by a dump truck.
Several dump trucks. Like he could sleep for a hundred years and still be bone-tired.
Like a fault line has opened in his heart, and now, it is slowly, irreparably, cracking in two.
His eyes burn. He squeezes them shut. “Like I’m dying. ”
Silence stretches between them, broken only by the intermittent click of one of Oliver’s machines. He counts his heartbeats, pounding through his skull, until he loses track. “Theo?”
“Yeah?” He sounds like he did in that waiting room, three floors down, the night they lost their parents. His brother, but not.
Oliver swallows the lump in his throat. “Can I come home?”