He looks the taller boy in the eyes.
“Don’t die.”
Duane nods. “Thank you,” he says. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
“Uh,” says Simon, his stomach sinking, “you’re, uh, welcome.”
He turns to go, face burning, but Duane grabs his hand.
“And as soon as you turn seventeen, you and me are gonna talk again, okay?”
Simon flushes. “Okay.”
Duane smiles. “Just—listen,” he tells Simon. “You make me want a future?”
“Uh-huh,” says Simon, his eyes watering.
Duane kisses his hand. “Now go be a leader.”
Simon crosses the empty store, avoiding piles of scat. He finds Louise exiting the back office, a black Sharpie in her hand.
“Did you set him free?” Simon asks her.
“I left a box cutter on the desk,” she says. “It won’t be easy, but he can reach it.”
“What’s the Sharpie for?” Simon asks.
She throws it across the room.
“It’s so every time he looks in the mirror he’ll understand what he is.”
“Which is?”
“A11.”
Simon gives her a quick hug. There is too much to say. Louise reaches down and squeezes his ass. He smiles.
“You were right,” she says when they separate.
“About what?”
“Trusting you.”
Louise
She pulls up to the front gate in the Troll’s Mercedes. Her lipstick color is to die for. It’s 5:23 a.m., and the sky is just starting to brighten. There are several unique types of anxiety in the DSMIV. Louise Conklin is suffering from none of them. The fear of death has liberated her from the grip of anonymous dread. Instead, she has the top down and she’s playing “Rock Steady” by Aretha Franklin. On her body are tight camouflage pants and a bathing suit top.
A guard in a black T-shirt and tactical cargo pants waves to her as she pulls in.
“Special delivery,” she says, the bass pumping.
Louise is the first wave. Her goal is simple, get inside, get close to the Wizard, and put her eyes on the princess in the tower. Fully expecting to be shot to death in the car, she smiles at the guard, who steps closer, tells her to turn down the music.
She does but not all the way. The music is what’s giving her courage.
“Evan sent me,” she says. “I hear our Wizard is a lonely, lonely boy.”
She puts out her boo-boo lip, knowing that this big man with his big gun is going to underestimate her. Not only is she Black and female, but she is fifteen years old and weighs all of ninety-eight pounds. She doesn’t even have a driver’s license. Before she drove over, she had to practice in the parking lot of the pet store.
“Tell him it’s his kitty-cat, Louise, here with some sweet chocolate milk.”
The guard talks into his wrist, listens.
“Look at the camera,” he tells her, pointing.
She looks up, smiles. Though the wind is blowing east from the desert, she can smell smoke from the wildfires out west. Somewhere in the distance there is the sound of insurgent gunfire.
The guard puts his hand to his ear, nods. There is an electronic buzz, and the gate swings open. It is a paradise inside. The pool is enormous, with a blooming fountain. The driveway is surrounded by impossibly green grass and towering palm trees. Louise follows the driveway to the main house—a cross between a Turkish mosque and a Spanish hacienda—past a dozen men in black T-shirts, all carrying assault rifles. For a moment, the impossibility of what they have to do overwhelms her, but she muscles it down. Would Beyoncé quit? A guard with a tactical headset waves her in, pointing to where she should park. She pushes the brake too hard, jerks to a stop, then glides in, acting like driving is no big deal for her. As she puts the car in park, it occurs to her she hasn’t felt the urge to clean anything in weeks.
She climbs out, slams the door, smiles at the eight hundred pounds of muscle between her and the door. The sky is fully blue now, and it is a testament to how orange it’s been for the last few days that for a moment Louise wonders if this is normal.
Astrid comes out onto the verandah. Boaz Orci is behind her, wearing a sidearm on his hip.
“Well, look at you,” says Astrid, smiling.
Louise twirls.
“Evan said it was nine one one,” she says, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the low sun.
“Arms out,” says Orci.
Louise puts her arms out, juts a hip fetchingly. The bathing suit top doesn’t cover much. Orci puts his hands on her hips, pats her down.