It didn’t take a leap of imagination for Adeline to see where Elliott was coming from. The poison he was talking about wasn’t nuclear. It was what Charlie was putting in his arm, the poison that had torn Elliott’s family apart.
She also knew what Constance was really thinking. The root of her aversion was in her own past. She had spent half her life cleaning up the wreckage of one reckless year abroad.
“Technically speaking,” Nora said, “we would be shipping them to a copy of our world—a world where humans are destined to evolve. That means, if the rods don’t go back far enough in time, the radiation could alter the biology of species pre-dating humanity, which could impact the advent of the human race. We could be causing an extinction event in a universe we created at the moment we used Absolom to send the rods back.”
Elliott shrugged. “Who cares? We created the split universe. It’s ours to destroy.”
“I don’t see it that way,” Constance said. “We should be mindful of our consequences. Even if it feels right now, we could regret it.”
“There’s another solution,” Adeline said. “Prisoners.” Adeline took a page from her pocket. “The latest stats I could find were from 2019, but that year, there were over two million Americans in either prison or jail. Including 2,570 people on death row. That’s down from a peak of 3,601 in 2000.”
Constance held a hand up. “Wait a second. What exactly are you proposing?”
Elliott set his coffee mug down. “She’s saying we do the same thing I was proposing with nuclear fuel rods on murderers and terrorists.”
Adeline held out her hands. “I’m simply saying that we license Absolom to justice departments to use as they see fit.”
Constance closed her eyes. “We’ve created a death machine.”
“On the contrary,” Elliott said. “Today, killers are put to death. With Absolom, they will be given life—under the sun, in the past, where they can live out their lives in the only peace this universe has to offer them.”
“We should get the licensing fee up front,” Hiro said. “The Supreme Court will surely rule it cruel and unusual. I favor a no-return policy.”
Constance still had her eyes closed. She was wavering on the stool. Adeline thought she was going to pass out. Instead, she pitched forward, opened her mouth, and emptied the contents of her stomach on the metal table.
FIFTY-SEVEN
That night, when Adeline went to visit her mother, Sam opened the door.
“How did it go today?” he asked.
“Some of the ideas didn’t go over well.”
“What ideas?”
She motioned him to the study, pulled the pocket door closed behind them, and told him the plan for Absolom.
He began chewing his thumbnail. “In a million years, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Well, what do you think of it?”
“I’m not sure. I guess life in exile is preferable to death.” He thought a moment. “Well, I guess that depends on the prisoner. But maybe that’s part of justice: they don’t get to choose their future.”
Adeline moved to the door, but Sam spoke again. “What did the others think?”
“The reactions were… mixed.”
In the living room, Adeline found her younger counterpart slouched on the sofa, earbuds in, staring at her phone. Adeline remembered those days. Her father had forbidden her from going out. He wanted the family to be together. She had thought it was ridiculous, that he was overreacting.
Ryan was building a LEGO robot on the dining table.
In the sewing room, Adeline found her mother sitting in a large light-blue recliner with her eyes closed. The chair was stained in a dozen places where milk and spit-up and other baby fluids had leaked on it from her and her brother.
If Adeline hadn’t been certain of the date, she might have thought her mother had already passed. Instead, she waited for her eyes to open, not daring to wake her.
“Hi,” her mother said, exhaling slowly.
“Hi.”
“Must have fallen asleep. I’m so tired all the time. In fact, I don’t think I can sew tonight.”
Adeline glanced over at the fabric printed with the photomosaic, the batting, and the backing. They had only finished one of the quilts.
“I’ll sew,” Adeline said. “You can read.”
Her mother smiled. It was a sad, reflective expression. “Too tired to read.”
That almost broke Adeline. But she held it together. “I’ll play an audiobook from my phone. And we’ll finish this together.”