Every Missing Piece

Chapter One

No matter how many times I've tried to convince myself that it's foolish, the anticipation is always the worst part. It cuts into me like a knife as I listen for any signs of life behind the door. There's nothing, of course; everyone has been cleared from the unit so I can do my job and help them to forget. All the same, I can't seem to shake my habit of lingering outside a trigger scene with tensed breath. The file that the blocker supervisors prepare me with is never enough to fight away my uncertainties.

I make myself open the file anyway, rereading it to make sure I have it committed to memory. Alexa Barron, the top of the page spells out in bolded letters. Age seventeen. Cause of death: Cardiovascular malfunction. Occupation: Nurse (training). Parents: Neil Barron (Assembly ambassador), Angela Barron (nurse). Enjoyed singing, nature, baking.

The file continues, reducing Alexa Barron to nothing more than a list of bullet points that could describe anyone. It's my job to assemble the list into an idea of a person so I can remove every last trace of her. There's a photograph of her at the end of the file. I don't want to look but I'm drawn to her eyes, the eyes that have since gone dim and will see no more.

When I look at the picture, I realize that the two of us aren't so different. We both have blue eyes that seem to be constantly searching for something more. Both of us have hair that is somewhere between wavy and perpetually windswept, although Alexa's is darker than my dirty blond. She's only a teenage girl, just like me.

No. Alexa was a teenage girl. She's dead now, and my job is to make sure no one remembers she ever existed. That's a difference I can't overlook.

Even worse than the picture is the text at the bottom of the page. Assigned blocker: Carra Farmorre. With this line, Alexa's name and mine are entwined, and I would give anything for that to be different.

I remember Walter, my blocker mentor, and his advice as I knock on the door to the unit a final time. These people are doomed to be forgotten, Carra, he would tell me. There's no point in fighting it. The best we can do is to remove the triggers that remain behind them and save their survivors the heartbreak of wondering what used to fill these spaces in their lives. It's a noble pursuit like none other.

I'm not so sure that being a blocker is noble. All I know is that everyone in Gotten has a skill and mine is making people disappear. I wish I had something more to offer, but I can only weave a world full of holes.

All the same, the holes I create are necessary for Gotten's way of life to continue. Each night, our memories from the previous day slip away through our fingers while we sleep. We awake to a blank slate, still remembering who we are, what we do, and our place in this city. It's the small details—meaningless conversations we've had, strange things we've seen—that escape us. It is not good or bad. It is simply the way things are and the way things always have been.

Forgetting leaves our minds fragile, though, and some things are too big to disappear on their own...like people who have died. I've been taught that those who have a profound impact on our lives don't leave without a fight, and if you're not careful, the traces they leave behind can shine a spotlight on the dark shadows they've rendered in your mind. These traces are called triggers, and we blockers remove them before they can drive anyone to the brink of insanity.

As Walter says, it is a noble pursuit, and I hate every minute of it.

The unit is still silent, so I rummage through my bag to find the key and I unlock the door. It eases open without protest and I walk inside, closing the door gently behind me. Empty boxes, waiting to be filled with trigger after trigger, are stacked across from the entrance where I can't miss them. I grab one from the top of the pile and walk into the first room.