James 10
James
I yank open the refrigerator door.
I duck down to stare into the unnaturally lit abyss, cold air glazing my face, and the low buzz of electricity fills my ears. The situation is just as bad as I thought it would be.
“—raids have been successful,” Warner is saying, “and all the more demoralizing as a result.”
“What’s the latest count?” Nazeera asks.
“Just over a hundred, as of yesterday.”
In addition to a pack of sponges and the moldy remains of a mostly eaten wedge of cheese, there are now two decomposing bananas sitting on the middle rack, so soft with age they’re sinking into the wire, bits of banana squishing out. Otherwise, the fridge is empty.
Really fucking excellent.
No, wait—
There’s a tiny pad of foil-wrapped butter wedged into the drink shelf. I fish it out and flip it in my hand like a coin. And then I toss it angrily into the sink.
“I’m worried we’re going to run out of room to hold them all,” Kenji is saying. “I’m worried we’re going to run out of resources to manage this—”
I slam the refrigerator door shut.
“Wait, where are we holding them?” Nazeera asks. “Are these double agents capable of breaking out of our prisons, too?”
I pull open the freezer and discover a still life: an empty ice cube tray, an exploded bag of peas, and a single spoon.
“Nazeera,” I shout from the kitchen. “Why the hell is there a spoon in your freezer?” I chuck the spoon in the sink, where it lands with a loud clatter, and then I slam the freezer door shut.
Nazeera doesn’t answer me.
I can almost feel them exchanging worried glances in the other room. They’re making a patient effort to ignore me, as if they’ve already discussed it as a group and decided to let me throw a tantrum.
This only makes me angrier.
I start loudly flipping open cabinet doors.
“My information indicates the prison will, in fact, hold them,” Warner is saying. “But—”
“Your information?” I glance over my shoulder. “Is that what we’re calling her now?”
I slam two cabinet doors closed.
Empty.
Empty.
“But Kenji is right to be concerned,” Warner continues. “This is the first phase. We’ve only just begun implementing these new protocols, and I have a feeling the numbers will rise precipitously as we broaden the scope of our search—”
I slam closed three more cabinet doors.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
“And it’s true, right?” says Kenji. “That these people are all chipped?”
I flip open another couple of doors, and this time I discover three mismatched water glasses and a roll of toilet paper.
A roll of toilet paper.
I set this on the counter.
“In every instance so far, yes,” says Warner. “The recent attack has made it easier to do sweeps for the tech, because they’ve been flushed out of their spy holes and into the streets. Our intelligence states that these agents—”
“Our intelligence?” I call out, laughing darkly. “Whose intelligence? Why are you so afraid to say her name?”
“Our intelligence,” Warner tries again, “states that these agents would’ve likely been chipped in the early days of Operation Synthesis, before the Ark was officially born.”
I give up on the cabinets and start opening drawers.
“Wait,” says Nazeera. “I thought we killed that project. Didn’t we de-chip people?”
“We tried,” says Kenji.
I slam a drawer closed. Empty.
“Our global initiative to remove this tech was built on voluntary participation,” Warner explains.
“There were many people who lived in the margins, beyond our reach. Even if we’d wanted to track down every civilian and subject them to the kinds of draconian medical examinations that were standard under The Reestablishment—”
“Which we didn’t,” says Kenji.
“—we simply didn’t have the resources. It was beyond the scope of our capabilities at the time.”
I slam another drawer closed.
Empty.
“It still is, to be honest,” says Nazeera, subdued.
I yank a final drawer open.
Inside is a pair of scissors, a screwdriver, a desiccated orange peel, and a glittery sticker of a shovel with text that reads “Your feelings are making everyone uncomfortable! Try burying them instead!”
This seems like a personal attack.
I slam the drawer closed.
“We’ve been able to verify that these spy cells don’t use our satellites to coordinate,” Warner is saying.
“Instead, they ingest chemical trackers that have the ability to recognize one another. But this biotech is built to break down in the body, giving us only a limited window for tracing. My source says that these supplies are illegally smuggled, which—”
“Your source?” I laugh out loud again. “Nice.”
“Which means we need to focus on disrupting supply lines. One of our most pressing demands right now is monitoring freight and securing borders—”
I swipe the toilet roll I’d set on the counter and step out into the living room. “What the fuck is this, Nazeera?” I say, holding it up. “Why is there a roll of toilet paper in your kitchen cabinet?”
Everyone turns to look at me.
It’s like we’re at camp. Kenji and Nazeera are sitting on the dusty hardwood floors, backs against opposite walls.
Warner, of course, rarely sits down unless his wife is around.
He’s standing by a window in a wash of light, looking holy.
I hate how holy he looks. I hate his perfect hair and his perfect clothes and the fact that he looks so calm.
I hate that he talks to Rosabelle every single day and then looks me in the eye and pretends he doesn’t.
I hate the way everyone is staring at me.
I hate that they think I’m the problem.
Almost nothing has changed in this house since the last time I visited. Not a stick of furniture. Nothing added or altered. Just two moldy bananas.
Hell, maybe I am the problem.
Maybe I need to be more of a problem.
I’m so charged with unresolved negative energy I don’t know how to cope. Adrenaline keeps building in my body without release. I need to fix something. Break something.
Do something.
“Oh,” says Nazeera, her eyes widening at the toilet roll in my hand. “I’ve been looking for that.”
“You’ve been looking for it?” I raise my eyebrows. “What’s that even supposed to mean? How do you lose track of toilet paper? Why didn’t you just put it in the bathroom? How the hell can you live like this?”
“What?” she says, taken aback. “Like what?”
“Like this,” I say, frustrated, gesturing to the house. My anger is rising too quickly, but I don’t know how to walk it back anymore. “Why haven’t you gone grocery shopping?”
“Grocery shopping?” Nazeera gets to her feet.
Great, now she’s offended.
“You think I had time to go grocery shopping?” she snaps at me. “Was I supposed to put up some curtains and mow the lawn, too? James, we’ve been busy—”
“What have you been eating?”
“I—What?” She stalls, her brow furrowing in confusion. She glances from me to Warner, who only looks tired. “What do you mean? You want, like, a list of the things I eat in a day?”
“Nazeera,” I say, trying to speak slowly. “There’s no food in your house. You don’t even own plates. You don’t have silverware.”
“I know,” she says, her irritation spiking again.
“I’m well aware of the state of my kitchen.
And I know I wanted to buy a couch or whatever but my priorities have changed.
I don’t need any of those things right now—especially not when we’re all focused on operations that require us to be in the field—”
“Then what do you eat?” I say, and I feel like the words are choking me. “What does she eat?”
“Hey, whoa,” Kenji says to me. “Maybe you should step outside for a second. Cool off.”
I keep my eyes on Nazeera. “Do you even remember to feed her?”
“Oh my God,” she says, making an exasperated sound. “Is that what this is about? James, she’s not a child. I don’t need to feed her.”
“She’s your responsibility!”
“She’s not a prisoner here anymore,” Nazeera argues, “which means I’m not her guardian.
I don’t monitor her around the clock because I can’t, not even if I wanted to.
” She takes a step forward, gesturing around the room.
“In case you haven’t noticed: things have changed.
I have ten thousand things to do every day, and she’s never home anyway, so it’s not like—”
“Nazeera,” says Warner.
Nazeera falls back, blanching.
“Sorry,” she says, widening her eyes at Warner. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Wait, what does that mean?” I look between them. “What do you mean she’s never home? Where is she?”
“Don’t answer that question,” Warner says with terrifying calm.
“I won’t,” says Nazeera. “I mean, I wasn’t going to—I just—Look, James, I’m just trying to say that she’s not helpless. She knows how to fend for herself; she’s been doing it all her life. And if she needs anything she’s not getting, all she has to do is ask.”
“Jesus.” I exhale, hard, the air leaving my lungs in a rush. “You don’t understand—Rosabelle doesn’t ask for help—”
“Bro, seriously,” says Kenji. “I need you to calm down. You’re starting to scare me.”
“It’s a really simple fucking question,” I say angrily. “Why won’t anyone answer my question?”
“Wait, slow down,” says Kenji. “What’s the question?”
“What does she eat?”
The responding silence is deafening.
Warner closes his eyes, pressing two fingers to his pinched forehead. Nazeera says nothing.
It’s Kenji who looks around at everyone, confused, and finally shatters the silence with “How the hell am I supposed to know what she eats? Is that my job, too?”
“James, c’mon,” Nazeera says quietly, like she’s trying to reason with a toddler. “Rosabelle has pretty strong survival instincts. I’m sure she’s eating.”
“You’re sure?” I don’t recognize my own voice; I sound unstable. “You’re sure, but you don’t actually know? You don’t know whether the person you live with has eaten a single meal since she moved in?”
“I told you we never should’ve had the meeting here,” says Kenji, leveling Warner a look. “I told you it was a bad idea, that it would end badly—”
“And I told you that I still don’t trust more than a few people beyond this room,” Warner hits back. “I have no choice but to convene at headquarters, but otherwise I’d prefer not to discuss sensitive intel in spaces outside of the security of our own houses.”
“We could’ve gone back to your place—”
“No,” Warner says sharply. “I need to be careful how much of this I bring home right now.”
It’s a sudden slap.
A sobering reminder.