In his memory of that moment, his mother’s face was young and beautiful, made more so by the long thin scar that began at her left temple and arced prettily down her cheek, hooking over the curve of her jaw and ending at the center of her windpipe. The Minister, as a boy, loved that scar, and he tracked its trajectory every night with his index finger, just as his mother tracked the falling star.
When he was young enough to assume that his hopes were powerful enough to true themselves upon the face of the world, and old enough to understand loss, both his parents donned their uniforms and marched off with most of the other parents of his acquaintance and headed into war. He had no idea what war was, and assumed it was similar to the wars that he fought with the other children in the neighborhood, in which the only casualties were the occasional broken arm and a few tortured pet dogs that were not to be mentioned later.
His mother was so beautiful in her high boots and fatigues. The moment before they marched away, both his parents gathered him in their arms and kissed him. The Minister sat on his grandfather’s lap and waved and waved and counted the days until his parents would return and life would become normal once again.
It did not, alas. His mother, thanks to an inopportune step, had been blown to bits. There was nothing to bury. Only his father came back. The Minister never forgave him.
In the ensuing years, the Minister spent most nights in the backyard, looking up at the stars. He couldn’t bear to be under the same roof as his father, who couldn’t bear to look upon the face of his son. War had become commonplace in those days, and blackouts were a way of life. The roof of the night sky, therefore, was unspoiled by leaking lights or passing cars. While his neighbors crouched and shivered in the darkness, the boy Minister watched the workings of the heavens on full display before him—each glittering body smartly following their courses like soldiers. He kept records and drew maps. He delighted in their punctual grace. Each time an asteroid fell, he traced it with his finger along the curve of the sky, and thought of his mother.
There, her voice in his mind, a bit of magic.
And the Minister became convinced that his mother’s words were true. And he became convinced that perhaps he should have found the place where the falling star fell, and perhaps if he had, he might have been able to save her.
And perhaps there was a way to prevent himself from ever dying. It was a thing worth wishing for, after all. Freedom from death. From erasure. From oblivion. And once he thought it, he began to want it. And then it was all he wanted. Well, almost all. He held his finger in the darkness before him, and traced the curve of his mother’s scar. He would never forget it. It haunted his dreams.
And maybe I can bring her back.
13. Now.
They are two towns over, the Sparrow and her father, and they are wet through, and chilled to the bone.
“How can there be no whiskey,” the junk man moans. “There is always whiskey.”
And it’s true. There is always whiskey. Or at least there has been whiskey in abundance for the last fifteen years. There have been many things in abundance for the last fifteen years. The junk man has theories about this. He has memories of a miraculous baby. But they are faded and fuzzy, as wobbly and patched-together as his own dear cart. He puts his arm around his daughter, who wraps her arms around his middle. She is the only thing that’s real.
The rain pours harder. The Sparrow pulls her father close, helping him scoot further into the lee of the wagon, their backs curving under the edge. Surely it will stop soon. Four identical chickens—all Most Remarkable Hens, and all named Midge—peck at the ground under the cart. From time to time, they touch the tops of their heads to the girl’s back, as though reminding themselves that she is still there.
They love her. So much.
The face of the Minister gazes over the town from massive billboards. They are everywhere. The Minister’s smile is practiced, his skin is slick as resin. Even from here, the Sparrow can smell the formaldehyde and camphor on his breath.
The billboards will be useful. The junk man’s daughter has a plan. But not yet, her heart pleads. I’m not ready. She leans her cheek on the bony angles of her father’s shoulders and tries to breathe him in. She cannot leave him yet.
People rush by with their homemade umbrellas or their oilcloths or their remnants of old plastic sheets. They see the junk man, but they do not greet him. They do not offer shelter. They have heard the stories. They have considered writing reports, but they fear incriminating themselves. After all, the junk man has been selling his wares in their jurisdiction for years. Years.
A troop of soldiers—twelve in all—marches by, their boots splattering mud. Their original faces are covered. No one knows what they looked like before. On the day of their initiation, their bright Interfaces are fused to their cheekbones and linked to their eyes—allowing everything they hear, smell, see, and think to be uploaded, searchable by the Minister himself. Each Interface has a scar, starting at the temple, arcing prettily across the cheek, and hooking under the limit of the jaw.
The Interfaces look ever so much like the Minister’s mother. No one knows this. No one except for the Sparrow. It only makes her love him the more.
“I just don’t understand it,” the junk man says, shivering again. “How can it be gone?”
“It’s a mystery, Papa,” the Sparrow says, but it’s not.
