Once, he was living his life in precisely the way he ought to. And it was 4:23 p.m.
4:23 pm was when he first saw her. It was at this very intersection, on this very patch of ground, just beneath the neon lights that signaled when to walk. He’d left work that day at exactly 4:06 pm, and upon seeing the telltale blue lights that meant the city enforcers were waiting on his normal route, he decided to take a different path home.
He was assigned to the tall, crystalline office building, its pale blue walls rising up in identical fashion to those surrounding it, upon finishing his education. His education had also been assigned to him, as had his area of study, his apartment, his roommates, and his path home from work.
But that day, he saw the blue lights of the city enforcers as they buzzed over the heads of the crowds, and something in him said,
No.
It was the first time he’d ever taken a different route home. Perhaps, his first authentic refusal.
He went in the opposite direction, taking a route home that would end up adding exactly 11 minutes to his walk. At some point during those 11 minutes—at this very intersection, on this very patch of ground—he felt a sudden compulsion to look to his right.
And there she was.
She marched forward, one of a dozen other people, all wearing the same shade of soft blue denim that made up his own three-piece suit. Black curls bounced beneath her hat, framing soft features. She had brown eyes, a long nose, and her face was devoid of expression, just like everyone around her. Just like him.
She crossed the road and walked right past him, going the other way. And for the first time in twenty-one years on his afternoon commute, he stopped and turned around. People jostled into him, murmuring confusedly at the sudden obstacle in the flow of foot traffic. He stood still as a statue, watching her walk away. He could have sworn that for a moment, she slowed and almost turned. Then she was swallowed by the crowd.
That was 34 days ago. It is 4:23 pm.
The crowd of people has grown accustomed to him by now. For 34 days, he has stood in this exact spot at 4:23 pm. Every day, he has stood still for exactly three minutes, slowly turning in place, looking. The crowd, whether because it consisted of the same people every day or because it held some sort of collective muscle memory, had adapted to his presence for those three minutes. He was now simply another given, an ordered and predictable part of a carefully planned existence. In fact, he thought, when he stopped this strange tradition, the crowd would probably still ebb around the place he stood, people tripping and jostling one another at his sudden absence.
Would that be what it was like when he died? His death nothing but a momentary lapse of function, quickly filled in and forgotten for mindless routine?
That may be so. But for 34 days, he’d held a slightly greater significance. Not a cog in a machine, but a pebble in the hinges.
His greatest pleasure had become standing in the flow of people at that intersection, like a stubborn boulder amidst a stream, unwilling to succumb to erosion, forcing them to deviate from the plan for mere seconds a day. And always, looking for her.
He was surprised he hadn’t been caught. He’d heard of people being hauled off to re-education centers for less.
A nudge at the corner of his mind.
Turn right.
He turned, and there she was: to anyone else, simply another point in a sea of blue. But to him, she held an aura of distinction. Something in her skin called to him. The air around her swirled a different color, held a different weight. She was an enigma, and she called to him.
And then—it was as if the heavens parted and a chorus of fabled angels sang—she looked at him, and her mouth parted slightly, as if she had gasped.
It was only after she’d passed, her eyes never leaving his as she walked, that he realized he’d been smiling. His cheeks hurt.
The next day, a miracle: she appeared again. Again, she looked at him. This time, her lips stayed pressed together, but they crinkled in a way that could have been the beginnings of a smile. The day after that, her fingers lifted from their place at her side, wiggling at him in a covert wave. He longed to reach out and grab them. The next day, she smiled wide enough that he could see her teeth peeking from behind her lips—they were gangly and crooked, the most wonderful teeth he’d ever seen.
On the fifth day, he waited for her in tense anxiety, his plan set and ready to hatch.
As she approached him, her brow furrowed, perhaps noticing the strange way he stood, like a man readying himself to jump across a chasm. He angled his body suddenly, wedging himself between her and another man, who huffed loudly at the incursion, and became one with the current.
They walked side by side for several minutes, neither of them daring to do so much as look at the other. He had never walked in this direction before. The pale blue buildings that rose up around them had a slightly different hue, as if the sun hit them differently here.
They came to another intersection and stopped to wait their turn, and he looked at her. Her chest heaved up and down, and her cheeks pinked where before they were pale and colorless. She looked up at him, and he noticed she had a dimple on her right cheek when she smiled. It was soft and subtle, like it hadn’t had much use.
And then he saw it—blue lights.
The city enforcers buzzed up ahead, the small black drones zipping back and forth across the street, scanning citizens. The blue lights made his head hurt when they scanned him, put sparkles in his eyes for the rest of the day, but unless he was out of place, he wouldn’t be stopped.
And he was out of place.
He looked back at her, his heart beating frantically. Her eyes were wide, searching him, as if she were trying to memorize his face.
What he did next was the least orderly thing he would ever do. He leaned down, his face level with hers, their breath mingling for mere moments, and he kissed her. He kissed her like he would never see her again, for indeed he would not—not in this life, anyway.
When he broke away, he still tasted the salt of her tears on his lips. And when the city enforcers swooped down and carried him away to be re-educated, he didn’t regret a single moment of the last 34 days, six minutes, and 24 seconds of his life.
17
Zander’s bones rattled with the vibration of the ship running aground. Despite bracing themselves for impact, the three pirates were still thrown forward onto their knees. The ear-piercing crack of wood hitting stone indicated a rocky shore, and Zander grimaced, wondering how much damage they’d done to the hull.
Then he remembered he hated those assholes, and his concern vanished.
As soon as the ship came to a standstill, the three of them rappelled down the side. They hit the ground running, sprinting east across the wet sand, heading for a line of trees near the shore. Once they got just inside of the tree line, Zander stopped and looked back at the ship. In the black of night, he could make out the silhouettes of a few drunken pirates, their forms barely illuminated by the light of a lantern.
He spared them only a glance before he turned to follow his friends.
The three companions continued in an all-out sprint for what felt like ages, jumping over stones and fallen branches, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the ship. The sea lay to their right, the waves a comforting roar. To their left were miles of rolling hills and trees, free from any sign of civilization.
Eventually, they slowed to a jog, and finally, they walked, their breathing loud and labored over the sound of their footsteps. They walked like that, without speaking, for over an hour. Zander was beginning to agonize over the slowly encroaching exhaustion he felt when the distinct shape of low stone walls came into view up ahead.
As they neared, Zander realized they were ruins. Eroded stone walls outlined the shape of what looked to have once been part of a town. Pieces of the walls made with discolored brick stood higher here and there, and one open square contained the remnants of around a dozen stone pillars. As they approached, Zander could barely make out the delicate lines and whorls that decorated their tops.
