It was the story of his life, this inability to be where he was. To live in the moment.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s starting.”
But Claire shook her head. “You go.”
Simon swallowed hard. He felt responsible for Claire. Claire who was always wandering off, always talking back, Claire who couldn’t just be nice and do what she was told.
“Claire,” he said.
But she was done talking, and they stayed that way until their mother came to drag them downstairs, lips pursed, pinching their arms a little too hard, smelling of scotch and fear.
*
It’s midnight when the Prophet comes to get him. Simon is sitting on the edge of his bed, his bag already packed. He is like an old woman with a doctor’s appointment, up and dressed at 4:30 a.m., anxious he will sleep through the alarm, worrying their route. What if they’re stopped? What if the guards are mad? What if they tell the doctors and the doctors call his parents? Simon Oliver, jailbreak artist, outlaw. The thought makes him shiver. It is a fantasy both rich and terrifying. To wantonly cast off the rules of society. To say fuck it. Fuck it all.
Could he do it and survive? Or would a bolt of lightning strike him just for asking the question? Sitting on his bed—he has made his fucking bed—he fingers the paper bag in his pocket, focuses on his breathing. Deep in. Slow out.
Don’t think about how many private planes you’ve been on, how many gallons of jet fuel were burned to move four spoiled, selfish people around the globe. Think about what you personally can do to free yourself from the paralysis of this knowledge, the survivor’s guilt of being rich and white and male with your whole life ahead of you.
Redemption. Ever since the Prophet said the word, it’s all Simon can think about.
The dorm is soundless at this time of night, just the hum of his own jittery blood roaring in his ears, so the crackle of car tires on the gravel outside is like a scream. As headlights hit the wall of his room, Simon freezes. Another ambulance maybe, here for the latest escapee. The paper bag in his pocket crinkles when he stands, crosses to the window, looks out.
As he does, he tries not to think about how in China they call it the airpocalypse. How in India the simple act of breathing outdoors is equal to smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. Pollution has been linked with increased mental illness in children and dementia in adults. But sure, let’s all just keep pretending that nothing’s wrong.
There is a van outside, something out of the 1970s. Airbrushed on the driver’s side is a painting of a mythic warrior, wielding a battle-axe, facing a horde of demons—a buxom woman in a chain-mail bikini at his side. Smoke emanates from the open driver’s window. Smoke that, through the partially open window, smells of skunky rec rooms and shag carpeting.
Is this our getaway car? he wonders. Or did someone order a pizza?
There is a sharp knock behind Simon. He turns. The Prophet is there with Louise. She is wearing short shorts and has a Hello Kitty backpack on her back. The Prophet holds nothing, of course, as if, being an elevated being, he requires none of the ephemera the rest of us cling to—clean clothes, a toothbrush, time.
“Fly, you fool,” says Louise.
Simon grabs his knapsack, struggles it onto his shoulder. Looking at them, it’s clear he overpacked, but there’s no time to adjust, for the Prophet has turned and is already on the move. Louise claps her hands, delighted to throw off the shackles of “progress,” to take all her newfound maturity and coping devices and torch them on a pyre. She dances off, skipping down the hall with little effort to be quiet.
“How are we…？” whispers Simon, hurrying to catch up. “What’s our exit route? There are two guards at the front desk until three. And this one nurse, the old guy with the limp, he’s on rounds until five.”
But they ignore him. Ahead, the Prophet opens the door to the back stairs.
“Wait,” says Simon, following them into the stairwell. “They keep…The back doors have alarms.”
The Prophet descends one flight, giving no indication he’s heard or that he cares. Behind him, Louise appears to be singing to herself, soundtracking their escape.
So you’re a tough guy
Like it really rough guy
Simon, hurrying to keep up, makes the turn to the ground floor. He would tell you, if you asked him, that there is a dead zone the size of Florida in the Arabian Sea. A dead zone so big it may include the entire Gulf of Oman. Trillions of gallons of H2O with no O.
Bye-bye, dolphins. Bye-bye, mollusks. Bye-bye, whales.