The screen returned to the mountain view.
Someone snorted. “She seemed —”
“Call Aaron Brady. A-a-r-o-n. B-r-a-d-y.”
Joe had told himself he wouldn’t call. Promised himself. Swore he didn’t care whether his father lived in Minneapolis or lived at all. Didn’t care if his dad wanted to see him. Lies, lies, lies.
The cool voice of the EC returned. “I have located twelve thousand matches. Would you like to begin?”
“Narrow to Aaron Brady in Minneapolis.”
“I have retrieved forty-five matches. Would you like to begin?”
“Retrieve avatars.”
The screen filled with photos. Dozens of smiling Aaron Bradys.
“Males only. Scroll.”
On and on the photographs went. Joe scanned the faces, the hair, the eyes. Not him. Not him. Not him. None of them him.
Had Joe forgotten? Nine years was a long time. Maybe his father was there on the screen, hiding under years of change.
“Narrow to Aaron Brady, Minneapolis, Engineer.”
The calm AI voice again. “No results match your query. Would you like to try again?”
“Aaron Brady, Minneapolis, biomechanical design.”
“No results match your query. Would —”
“Aaron Brady, anywhere, Engineer or biomechanical design.”
“No results —”
“Aaron Brady, Minneapolis...” He had to be missing something, some key that would unlock the code, hand him his father. “Aaron Brady, anywhere...”
“Joe.” A tug on his pantleg, and Devin sat at his feet, his eyes squinted closed, his face tight with pain or pity, Joe couldn’t tell.
“He’s there, papi. I just have to get the right keyword. I can find him.” Joe turned back to the screen. “Aaron Brady, Minneapolis, between forty and fifty years old.”
Four matches. Two blonds. A redhead. One with dark hair.
Joe touched that photo. “Enlarge.”
The man had laugh lines. Dimples. Deep, dark brown eyes.
Joe stared and stared. He closed his eyes. “End search.”
“Did you find him?” Devin still sat at Joe’s feet. His eyes watered, the way they did when he tried to see bright objects. That symptom had started a few days ago.
Joe patted Devin’s head, wished he could hold him. Be held.
“It wasn’t him.”
He looked at the others — Flix, Peter, and Aria sitting on the floor, Clinton and Maribou in their matching chairs. Saw their pity. His face heated, and he forced himself to shrug. “It was a longshot. If he was still around, he never would have left me in Austin so many years.”
“Sit down, sweetheart,” Maribou said. “Let yourself be comforted.”
Joe’s knees buckled slightly. But before he could be an idiot and give himself and Devin away, Aria patted the floor. “Come here, baby.”
The last thing he wanted was to sit next to Aria and receive her comfort, live a lie. But he couldn’t take the chance. Clinton and Maribou had been gracious hosts, not seeming to care about skin color, probably because Maribou would have been an outcast, too. That didn’t mean they’d accept a romantic relationship between men. Joe brushed his leg against Devin’s back as he walked past and sat next to Aria.
When she put her arm around his waist, he waited until their hosts had turned their attention back to the EC before shrugging off her hollow touch.
TWENTY
That night, Joe hid in the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He dried off with the shoulder of his shirt, then held the edges of the smooth porcelain sink and took a good look at himself in the tiny, warped mirror in front of him.
His father’s hair. If not the color, at least the curl and the silkiness. His father’s skin, paler than any other Mexican kid he’d ever known. His dad’s ears. Dad had always said Mom joked they were his best features, so he was glad they got passed down to their only child.
That boy he’d been when Dad left. Too small, too skinny, too pale. Too smart. But dumb enough to hold on to a dream for half his life.
Mom had been dead thirteen years. How long ago had his father joined her?
Because that’s what this meant, right? This absence on the EC? His father was dead. Joe had half-expected it. Sometimes he’d even hoped for it, those times when he’d been so sure, so angry, that he’d been abandoned. He didn’t feel that way now.
He opened the little cabinet behind the mirror and rifled through Clinton and Maribou’s things. No useful medicine, not even old-fashioned NSAIDs. He found a mostly-full bottle of stomach soothers and pocketed half of them. When they ran out of nausea meds — and he was more and more sure that would happen before they got to Minneapolis — these might help Devin some.
Joe turned off the light and headed for the bedroom, where he found Aria already curled up under the threadbare covers. He lay down, careful not to touch her.
“Are they all settled down in the barn?” Aria asked.
Joe grunted. Devin and the boys had been sent to the poorly heated barn because Clinton and Maribou didn’t have room for them in the house. Leaving Devin out there, trusting his headaches to Flix and Peter’s care, cut almost as bad as lying in this bed with Aria, pretending to be married. He’d gone out there earlier, given Devin his medicine and a biting kiss hard enough to feel for hours — a kiss to keep. “They’re all okay.”
“His abuela seemed like a piece of work.”
“I guess.” Joe hadn’t really given the woman much thought. She was clearly related to Devin, with her bright blue eyes, her elegant nose and jaw. That room she was in, with all the books — Devin would love that when he found her. Not until fall, she’d said. Maybe Joe would get to keep Devin until then. Devin hadn’t said much about his grandmother one way or the other when Joe had gone out to the barn to check on him.
Aria turned on her side to face him. “That man? Aaron Brady?”
“I’m not talking about this with you.”
“You need to talk to someone.”
“Not you. Not the girl who was
