“You,” I heard someone say, but over the motor, I couldn’t tell if it was one of the people in the boat with me, or in the other boat, which I could feel was pulling alongside us, or to whom they were speaking. And then the tarp was being pulled away from me, and I could feel the breeze on my face, and I lifted my head so I could see who was speaking to me, and where I was going next.
PART X
September 16, 2088
Dearest Peter,
I’m writing fast, because this is the last chance I’ll have—the person who’s going to find a way to get this to you is standing just outside my cell but has to leave in ten minutes.
You know that I’m going to be executed in four days. The insurgency needs a face, and the state needs a sacrificial lamb, and I was the compromise. I managed to get some concessions from both of them in return for being publicly hanged in front of a braying crowd, however: that they would leave Charlie and her husband alone, that she would never be punished for me; that Wesley will always treat her decently. No matter which side triumphs, she’ll be protected—or at least not harassed.
Do I trust them? No. But I also have to. I don’t care about dying, but I can’t bear to leave her here, in this place, alone. Of course, she won’t be alone. But he can’t stay here, either.
Peter, I love you. You know I do, and I always have. I know you love me, too. Please take care of her, my Charlie, my granddaughter. Please find a way to get her out of this country. Please give her the life that she should have had, if I had gotten out of here earlier, if I had been able to save her. You know she needs help. Please, Peter. Do everything you can. Save my little cat.
Who would have thought that New Britain, of all places, would one day be heaven, and this place so spectacularly rotten? Well, you did, I know. And so did I. I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry for it all. I made the wrong decisions, and then I made more and more of them.
My only other request—not to you, but to someone or something—is this: Let me come back to earth someday as a vulture, a harpy, a giant microbe-stuffed bat, some kind of shrieking beast with rubbery wings who flies over scorched lands, looking for carrion. Wherever I wake, I’ll fly here first, whatever they’re calling it then: New York, New New York, Prefecture Two, Municipality Three, whatever. I’ll pass by my old house on Washington Square and look for her, and if I don’t find her, I’ll fly north to Rockefeller and look for her there.
And if she’s not there, either, I’ll assume the best. Not that she’s been disappeared, or died, or interned somewhere, but that you have her, that you managed to save her in the end. I won’t even circle above Davids Island, or the crematoriums, or the landfills or prisons or reeducation or containment centers, trying and failing to detect her scent, cawing her name as I do. Instead, I’ll rejoice. I’ll kill a rat, a cat, whatever I can find, eat it for strength, and stretch my ribbed wings wide and let out a squawk, a sound of hope and anticipation. And then I’ll turn east and begin my long flight across the sea, flapping my way toward you, and her, and maybe even her husband, all the way to London, to my loves, to freedom, to safety, to dignity—to paradise.
acknowledgments
I am most grateful to Dr. Jonathan Epstein of the EcoHealth Alliance, and to the scientists at Rockefeller University who gave me valuable insights and access in early stages of my research: Drs. Jean-Laurent Casanova, Stephanie Ellis, Irina Matos, and Aaron Mertz. Profound thanks go to Dr. David Morens of the National Institutes of Health and the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, who not only brokered these introductions, but also good-naturedly gave of his time during a real-world pandemic to read about an imaginary one.
My deep gratitude to Dean Baquet, Michael “Bitter” Dykes, Jeffrey Fraenkel, Mihoko Iida, Patrick Li, Mike Lombardo, Ted Malawer, Joe Mantello, Kate Maxwell, Yossi Milo, Minju Pak, Adam Rapp, Whitney Robinson, Daniel Schreiber, Will Schwalbe, Adam Selman, Ivo van Hove, Sharr White, Ronald Yanagihara, and Susan Yanagihara, as well as Troy Chatterton, Miriam Chotiner-Gardiner, Toby Cox, Yuko Uchikawa, and everyone at Three Lives Books in New York for the extraordinary support, faith, and generosity they’ve extended to me in realms professional and personal. Thank you too to Tom Yanagihara and Ha‘alilio Solomon for their assistance with ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i. Any remaining mistakes—not to mention the decision to remap O‘ahu’s topography to suit the narrative—are mine.
I am extraordinarily lucky to have two agents, Anna Stein and Jill Gillett, who have not only never asked me to compromise, but whose patience and dedication have never dimmed. I am also extremely grateful to Sophie Baker and Karolina Sutton, who protected and fought for this book with zeal, and all my editors, publishers, and translators abroad, especially Cathrine Bakke Bolin, Alexandra Borisenko, Varya Gornostaeva, Kate Green, Stephan Kleiner, P?ivi Kovisto-Alanko, Line Miller, Joanna Maciuk, Charlotte Ree, Daniel Sandstr?m, Victor Sonkine, Susanne van Leeuwen, Maria Xilouri, Anastasia Zavozova, and the staff of Picador UK.
Gerry Howard and Ravi Mirchandani took a chance on me when no one else would; I will always be grateful to them for their advocacy, passion, and belief. I am so grateful to have Bill Thomas on my side, and for his steadfastness and calm; thank you, Bill, and everyone at Doubleday and Anchor, in particular, Lexy Bloom, Khari Dawkins, Todd Doughty, John Fontana, Andy Hughes, Zachary Lutz, Nicole Pedersen, Vimi Santokhi, and Angie Venezia, as well as Na Kim, Terry Zaroff-Evans, and, always, Leonor Mamanna.
I would not have conceived of this book, much less written it, were it not for a series of perspective-altering conversations and exchanges with Karsten Kredel, who I am privileged to count as both trusted editor and beloved friend. One of the greatest gifts of the past five years has been my friendship with Mike Meagher and Daniel Romualdez, whose hospitality, advice, and generosity have brought me immeasurable comfort and pleasure. Kerry Lauerman has been a source of humor and good counsel for more than a decade.
Finally: I am blessed to have met Daniel Roseberry, whose wisdom, empathy, wit, imagination, humility, and constancy make my life richer and more wondrous; I could not have endured the past two years without him. And nothing of who I am—as an editor, a writer, and a friend—would be possible without my first and favorite reader, Jared Hohlt, whose love and compassion have sustained me more times and in more ways than I can count. My devotion, not to mention this book, are for them.