“What do you mean?”
“Well, we don’t have any names other than our own. Outside of her giving me assignments, I’ve only had one conversation with Triple-Oh-One. I know nothing about her.”
“Only one conversation? In three years?”
“Yeah. Is it different for you?”
I unlock my front door, push it open. I’m not sure how much to tell her. All this time I’ve wondered how 0001 could be available to all of us at any hour on a moment’s notice, but now I’m wondering if it might just be me. And if that’s true . . . why me?
I tell her, “I don’t know much about her either.”
“I can’t just go to Sheila with nothing. You get that, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
“Wendy?”
“Yeah?”
“Does this mean you’re with me?”
“It means I’m thinking about it.”
“Okay. Thanks.” We end the conversation, and I go into my house, my shoulders relaxing. I flick on the lights, and settle into the warmth of the kitchen, the comfort of the burner phone in my hand. I’m glad I didn’t throw it out. And I feel like, maybe, I’m a better judge of character than I thought.
0417: I got your message loud and clear.
It’s 10:45 p.m. I’ve waited to private message her until I’ve eaten something, taken a hot shower, and changed into sweats, and yet still, like always, I see ellipses immediately.
0001: You could have put us in real danger.
I rest my hands on the keys, thinking of everything I’d like to say. But I have my own personal script now, and if I’m going to find out anything about 0001, I need to stick to it.
0417: I didn’t put us in danger. I didn’t tell her anything. I just wanted to express my condolences as the witness to her brother’s death.
0001 is typing . . .
0417: I let my feelings get the best of me.
0001: That isn’t an option. Not in war and not here.
0417: I shouldn’t have done it.
0001: I need to know that you won’t do anything like that again.
0417: I won’t. I promise.
0001: You are on notice.
0417: What does that mean?
0001: What do you think it means?
I get the feeling she’s about to leave the private chat. I type very quickly.
0417: Are you a mother?
0001: Of course I am.
0417: Tell me about the death of your child.
I wait a full minute after my message disappears. But there are no ellipses. No reply.
0417: My point is, you know so much about me. You know where I’m from and what I look like and who my daughter was and the first and last name of the person who killed her and made me into the monster that I am. You know that about every member of our collective, but we know nothing about you.
0001: I understand your loss, your pain, your rage.
0417: But I don’t understand yours. I private messaged you the first and last name of my daughter’s killer. Could you do the same for me?
Ellipses appear on the screen. But only briefly. What I wouldn’t give to see what she typed, then erased.
0417: All I’m trying to say is that I can’t see you.