The Search for Sam

conscious of One’s continued absence. It’s unlike her to disappear for so long.

I scan the room, looking to see if she’s tucked into some corner, hiding, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“One?” I whisper, as quietly as I can. “You there?”

No answer.

“Come on, One.” A little louder this time.

“Dude.” It’s Marco. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Hearing Marco say “dude” with his funny Italian accent is usually a highlight of my time at the camp. But getting caught talking to my invisible friend, I’m mortified.

“Sorry, man,” I say, blushing, annoyed with One for making me raise my voice.

I still expect to see her emerge from a doorway or closet any minute, laughing at me for getting busted talking to “myself.”

But she’s nowhere to be seen.

I try to sleep, tossing and turning as the room fills up with the other aid-workers, one by one. But sleep doesn’t come.

For all of One’s comings and goings I’ve never gone a whole day without seeing her—not since those three years I spent plugged into her memories. She’s just always been there.

Eventually I give up trying to sleep. I half dress, put on my sandals, and shuffle out to the compound’s backyard. It’s surprisingly cold and I clutch my arms to my chest for warmth. It’s dark outside, barely illuminated by moonlight and the dim lamp next to the latrine, and it takes me a minute for my eyes to adjust.

That’s when I see her, a faint outline crouched beside the baobab tree at the center of the yard.

I approach slowly. “One?”

She looks up at me. I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the moonlight, but there’s something strange about the way she looks: it’s like she’s both luminescent and too dark to see.

She remains silent. I stop in my tracks.

“Come on. This isn’t funny.”

“Oh,” she says, laughing bitterly. “I agree. This isn’t funny at all.” I can tell from her voice that she’s been crying. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she says.

Now I’m spooked. “See you like what?”

But up close I understand what she means. Her skin, her whole being, is strangely milky, almost translucent. I can look right through her.

“I keep disappearing,” she says. “Lately it’s been taking all my strength to keep myself visible.”

I’m quiet, afraid to speak. But I’m also afraid to listen, afraid of what she’ll say next.

She turns to me, staring right into my eyes. “Remember when I told you I went ‘nowhere’ when I was gone from you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I thought you were just being mysterious....”

She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I was being literal, actually. I really do go nowhere. I disappear completely.” Now she’s crying freely. “Each time, I can feel myself getting weaker. Less real. It keeps happening. I can still fight it, but it’s getting harder. It feels like I’m dying all over again.”

She closes her eyes. As she does, she flickers in and out of visibility. I can intermittently see the bark of the tree behind her.

“Well,” she says, opening her eyes again. “Dr. Anu never promised this would last.”

“One,” I begin. “What are you saying?” I ask the question even though a part of me—the One part of me—already knows the answer.

“My existence … us … this …” She gestures to the empty space between us. “You’re forgetting me, Adam.”

“That’s impossible, One. I’ll never forget you.”

She smiles sadly. “I know you’ll always remember me. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s one thing to remember I existed, it’s another for me to stay alive inside of you.”

I shake my head and turn away, not following, not willing to listen.

“It’s been a while since we were connected in Anu’s lab. Too long, I guess. I’m fading. The way we are, the way we talk to each other, the way you can see me, the way I feel alive even though I died years ago. Maybe forgetting is the wrong way of putting it. But whatever you want to call it, this wasn’t built to last. It’s breaking down.”