“What is it?” he demanded again, skin prickling. He stared at the cable that stretched along the road in front of them.
“A connection.” She bumped his shoulder. “Keeps you grounded. It leads to Hugo. He knows we’re close. Come on. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
* * *
The village was quiet. There seemed to be only a single main thoroughfare that went through the center. No traffic signals, no hustle and bustle of people on the sidewalks. A couple of cars passed by （Wallace jumping out of the way, not wanting to relive that experience again）， but other than that, it was mostly silent. The shops on either side of the road had already closed for the day, their windows darkened, signs hanging from the doors promising to be back first thing in the morning. Their awnings stretched out over the sidewalk, all in bright colors of red and green and blue and orange.
Streetlamps lined either side of the road, their lights warm and soft. The road was cobblestone, and Wallace stepped out of the way as a group of kids on their bikes rode by him. They didn’t acknowledge either him or Mei. They were laughing and shouting, cards attached to the spokes of their wheels with clothespins, their breath streaming behind them like little trains. Wallace ached a little at the thought. They were free, free in ways he hadn’t been in a long time. He struggled with this, unable to shape it into anything recognizable. And then the feeling was gone, leaving him hollowed out and trembling.
“Is this place real?” he asked, feeling the hook in his chest grow warmer. The cable didn’t go slack as he expected it to as they continued on. He’d thought he would be tripping over it by now. Instead, it remained as taut as it’d been since he’d first noticed it.
Mei glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t quite know. “Are they … is everyone here dead?”
“Oh. Yeah, no. I get it. Yes, this place is real. No, everyone isn’t dead. This is just like everywhere else, I suppose. We did have to travel pretty far, but it’s nowhere you couldn’t have gone on your own had you ever decided to leave the city. Doesn’t sound like you got out very much.”
“I was too busy,” he muttered.
“You have all the time in the world now,” Mei said, and it startled him how pointed that was. His chest hitched, and he blinked against the sudden burn in his eyes. Mei walked lazily down the sidewalk, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he followed.
He did, but only because he didn’t want to be left behind in an unfamiliar place. The buildings that had seemed almost quaint now loomed around him ominously, the dark windows like dead eyes. He looked down at his feet, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. His vision began to tunnel, his skin thrumming. That hook in his chest was growing more insistent.
He’d never been more scared in his life.
“Hey, hey,” he heard Mei say, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself crouched low to the ground, his arms wrapped around his stomach, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises. If he could even get bruises. “It’s okay, Wallace. I’m here.”
“Because that’s supposed to make me feel better,” he choked out.
“It’s a lot for anyone. We can sit here for a moment, if that’s what you need. I’m not going to rush you, Wallace.”
He didn’t know what he needed. He couldn’t think clearly. He tried to get a handle on it, tried to find something to grasp onto. And when he found it, it came from within him, a forgotten memory rising like a ghost.
He was nine, and his father asked him to come into the living room. He’d just gotten home from school and was in the kitchen making a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. He froze at his father’s request, trying to think of what he could have done to get in trouble. He’d smoked a cigarette behind the bleachers, but that had been weeks ago, and there was no way his parents could have known unless someone had told them.
He left the sandwich on the counter, already making excuses in his head, forming promises of I’ll never do it again, I swear, it was just one time.
They were sitting on the couch, and he stopped cold when he saw his mother was crying, though she looked like she was trying to stifle it. Her cheeks were streaked, the Kleenex tightened into a little ball in her hand. Her nose was running, and though she tried to smile when she saw him, it trembled and twisted down as her shoulders shook. The only time he’d seen her cry before had been over a random movie where a dog had overcome adversity （porcupine quills） in order to be reunited with its owner.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, unsure of what he should do. He understood the idea of consoling someone but had never actually put it into practice. They weren’t a family free with affection. At best, his father shook his hand, and his mother squeezed his shoulder whenever they were pleased with him. He didn’t mind. It was how things were.
His father said, “Your grandfather passed away.”
“Oh,” Wallace breathed, suddenly itchy all over.
“Do you understand death?”
No, no, he didn’t. He knew what it was, knew what the word meant, but it was a nebulous thing, an event that occurred for other people far, far away. It’d never crossed Wallace’s mind that someone he knew could die. Grandpa lived four hours away, and his house always smelled like sour milk. He’d been fond of making crafts out of his discarded beer cans: planes with propellers that actually moved, little cats that hung on strings from the ceiling of his porch.
And since he was a child grappling with a concept far bigger than he, the next words out of his mouth were: “Did someone murder him?” Grandpa was fond of saying how he’d fought in the war （which war, exactly, Wallace didn’t know; he’d never been able to ask a follow-up question）， which was usually followed by words that caused Wallace’s mother to yell at her father while she covered Wallace’s ears, and later, she’d tell her only son to never repeat what he’d heard because it was grossly racist. He could understand if someone had murdered his grandpa. It actually made a lot of sense.
“No, Wallace,” his mother choked out. “It wasn’t like that. It was cancer. He got sick, and he couldn’t go on any longer. It’s … it’s over.”
This was the moment Wallace Price decided—in the way children often do, absolute and fearless—never to let that happen to him. Grandfather was alive, and then he wasn’t. His parents were upset at the loss. Wallace didn’t like to be upset. So he tamped it down, shoving it into a box and locking it tight.
* * *
He blinked slowly, becoming aware of his surroundings. Still in the village. Still with the woman.
Mei hunkered down before him, her tie dangling between her legs. “All right?”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded, though he was the furthest thing from all right.
“This is normal,” she said, tapping her fingers against her knee. “It happens to everyone after they pass. And don’t be surprised if it happens a few more times. It’s a lot to take in.”
“How would you know?” he mumbled. “You said I was your first one.”
“First one solo,” she corrected. “I put in over a hundred hours of training before I could go out on my own, so I’ve seen it before. Think you can stand?”