Aris walks to the table where computers of various sizes sit. She needs one with enough power and memory to make the machine work. She walks to the computer she wants and turns it on. The screen shows a crisp image of snow-dusted mountains. She picks it up and turns it over. She has worked on its guts and knows it will provide what she thinks she needs.
It has to work.
She stuffs it into her backpack and walks out. The Natural History Museum is still empty except for the things it contains. She is outside in no time without having been seen. She sighs in relief.
As she walks down the stone stairs, sadness clutches her. She pauses and looks back one last time at the place she spent most of this cycle. She will miss this place—the Tomb, the angry bear, even the children whom she taught the horrifying history of how the Four Cities and their lives came to be.
The sun is rising. The orange rays peek through the gaps between the leafless trees, lighting up the stone building, making it appear as if touched by fire.
She turns away. In less than three months she will be wiped of the memories of her friendship with Benja and the betrayal of Thane. Until then, she must do what she can to atone.
Chapter Sixteen
“Lucy, reach Benja,” Aris says.
The last time she saw him in person was before the new year, and now January is two-thirds done. She has not heard from him in a week. She left messages but they were not returned. He must be busy with writing. Still, her news is too good to not share. It may be premature, but she feels if she does not tell someone, she will burst into confetti.
She finally got the copper helmet to speak to the computer. She tested it on herself while awake, but the screen only showed images in front of her, as if her eyes were a video camera. Now she needs Benja. If he can wear it while asleep, perhaps she can see his dreams. She has yet to figure out how to record with the computer. But as soon as she does, she will be able to give him back his dreams.
“Reaching Benja,” Lucy says.
An unfamiliar face pops up in front of her—a woman.
“Hello. Sorry, I’m trying to reach my friend,” Aris says, confused. “Where is he?”
“You’re Benja’s friend?”
Aris nods.
“You must think this is so odd. A stranger speaking to you like this. I’m Padma, his apartment manager.”
“Hi. I’m Aris.”
An unsettling feeling looms.
“I’m sorry that I have to be the one to tell you this,” Padma says.
“Tell me what?” Her stomach feels as if she is dropping from a great height.
“There really isn’t a good way to say this at all.”
“What are you talking about?
“Benja’s dead.”
“There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure.”
The lines are projected on Benja’s apartment wall. The last passage he read while alive. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens.
Aris steels herself, holding back tears.
“I’m so glad you called,” Padma says. “I really didn’t know who to reach after Benja . . . It’s such a rare and tragic thing. There’s not even a clause in the apartment guidebook to tell me what to do. I just called the hospital and the Dwelling Council. They handled everything.”
“Where did you find him?” Aris asks.
“In his bed. It was his AI who contacted me. Benja had programmed him to do it twelve hours after he went to bed.”
Why didn’t you call me?
“May I please speak with his AI?” Aris asks.
“Sure. His name is Sirus. I’ll give you privacy. If you need me, please don’t hesitate,” Padma says and leaves the room.
Aris walks to the windows. She opens the curtains and sees a sweeping view of the vast sky. Benja’s apartment is on the top floor overlooking Central Park. The sun is beginning to set over the mountain range beyond the thicket of skyscrapers. The yellow rays bounce off the field of solar panels at the end of the city boundary, making them look like a glittering sea of molten gold.
Aris sighs. His beautiful face, his amazing brain, his potential—gone too soon. The worst thing that happened to his life was her. How can she ever forgive herself?
Her eyes stare at the horizon. “Sirus. My name is Aris. Do you know who I am?”
“Hello, Aris. Benja spoke often about you. He was smitten with you.”
She chokes back tears.
“How did Benja die? Was someone here? Did they hurt him?”
“His last visitor was three weeks ago. After that, Benja stayed up writing night after night, with no sleep in between. The last time he went to bed, he said”—Sirus imitates Benja’s voice—“‘Sirus, thank you for everything. I love you even though you don’t know what it means. Please reach Padma in twelve hours and ask her to come to my room. Tell her it’s very important that she does.’”
“He also recorded a message for you. He asked me to send it thirty-six hours after. It has only been thirty-four,” Sirus says.
“I’ll wait,” Aris says. “Do you know where he keeps the book he was writing?”
“His book, A Place of Waiting, is in me.”
“Of course,” says Aris. “May I hear it?”
Aris settles on the couch. She eyes the platform bed. Crumpled sheets. Blanket gathered into a ball at its foot. Both pillows are missing. She sees them lying neglected on the floor—a dirty footprint on one. There is evidence of people struggling to bring him back to life. But it was too late.
There is a dimple on the mattress. She wants to lie in it and feel the habit of his body on the soft cushion. But she does not. Instead, she lays her head on the couch.
Sirus reads the words
