Before I can deflect her insult-as-compliment, Dad interjects. “Dyl, no more fencing either. Time to move on to something else.”
“But Dad! I was getting really good.”
“Balance is the key,” he says. “And Zelia, no sports.”
My hand touches the outline of my pocketed necklace. “But—”
“Never start something where failure is likely.”
I shut my mouth. Dad’s list of no’s runs through my mind. No sports—you’re too weak and delicate. No roofs—you’ll fall off. No rule breaking—you’ll get in trouble. No boyfriends—they’ll give you a resistant form of disfiguring herpes. And now, no science.
I sigh. No science? It’s a big one. Still, I understand. He’s protecting me like he always has. He may not be around much, but I appreciate how he cares for me, every day. In every No.
Dyl steers the conversation away from me, knowing I’m upset and brooding in the driver’s seat. She tries to convince Dad to let her buy $1900 morphs (“But the shoes pay for themselves! Fifty pairs in one!”), then chatters on about where to eat, when he rubs his eyes again.
“Let’s just get beyond the city limits first.”
I’m distracted by an octopus ad with tentacles curving toward me when Dad puts an anxious hand on mine. A bright red magpod far away in the opposite lane bobbles unsteadily, like a cork being dragged through water. People on the elevated walkways point at it and pedestrians scramble out of the way in anticipation.
“Watch it!” Dad yells.
I turn our mag to the right, to get as far away as possible. Still, it comes closer, its speed increasing and I open my mouth in surprise.
“Oh crap!”
The runaway mag drives into our lane and smacks right into a yellow mag way ahead of us. The sound of the crash is loud, and the hit mag spins in a yolk-colored blur on the sidewalk, the metal squealing horribly. People nearby throw their arms up and scatter from the wreckage. The out-of-control red magpod changes direction again and heads our way.
This is like a horrible holo game I’m losing. I go left, the red magpod goes left; I go right and now it’s too close. I can’t get out of the way of this thing hurtling so impossibly fast towards us.
“Hold on!” I yell, making one last jerk to the right.
“No!” Dad throws his whole body over me and grabs the T-bar, pushing it hard to the left instead, putting himself between us and the oncoming mag. I see his other hand pull the emergency detach lever by my leg. In a second, we are all flying in different directions and my world is upside-down and I’m spinning so fast that the g-forces press my body painfully to the left side of the magpod I can’t see anything because white foam expands in milliseconds, surrounding my body and skull to cushion me from the inevitable impact. I spin, it seems, forever and ever, and pump the air into my lungs so fast, I’m dizzy from hyperventilating.
The crash.
Where is the crash?
But . . . the crash never comes. Everything is dark. My body can’t move. The protective foam has me mummified into a single position, hands still grasping the T-bar and legs still on the oval footpads. Muffled voices speak above me. I hear a scratching, the sound of hands on the shell of the magpod section I’m still in, trapped in a stiffening mold.
It’s so dark. A bubble of air surrounds my face. I feel my body rock to one side, like an infant in a cradle, then to the other. There is a crack of something breaking apart, and a sliver of dusky daylight penetrates my chemical cocoon. I suck in a breath of fresh air.
The chunk of light grows and fills in with the concerned faces of red uniformed medics. I gulp more air, ripping the foam away from my head. Chunks of it are stuck in my hair. Finally, hands pull me up and out, and the rest of the foam is removed in large, falling white masses.
“Ma’am? Are you okay? Do you have any injuries?” One of the medics rattles out questions at me, but all I hear is yelling and sirens and the sounds of panic. I try to stand, dizzy and nauseated. I dry heave from the foam fumes, and the spinning sensation in my head won’t stop.
“You need to rest, miss.” Another medic grabs my arm and I shove him hard, staggering away.
“Dad,” I croak. “Dylia. Oh god.” I look around wildly and find another piece of our magpod. Another group of people pull my sister, dazed, from her back section. They pry a huge piece of foam from her head as I run forward. Her curls are a mess, pointing every which way.
She sees me immediately and her eyes are so big, so doll-like, so wild.
“Where’s Daddy?” she shrieks.
I turn around and bolt to the crowd of medics surrounding the rest of the wreckage. Our bags have exploded around the scene. My underwear and Dyl’s new pink dress lie on the ground, trodden upon by rescue workers. Huge pieces of the magpod shell are scattered everywhere. I push into the throng, when I see two people pointing at something. A bloody rag lies several feet away from the crowd, right on the magnetic strip of the street. A shiny glint of gold peeps through the red.
My head swims with the bits of comprehension that slowly flood my brain. No. It isn’t a rag. It’s a hand. A man’s mangled hand wearing my father’s wedding ring.
Breathe, Zelia. Breathe.
But I can’t.
I can’t, because I’m screaming.
CHAPTER 2
The coffee dispenser is out of coffee.
Every hour, the silver boat-like machine with its garish sign, drip ship, floats by the rainbow of frosted glass doors of the ICU. Every hour I’ve run for a refill after being kicked out when Dad’s glass wall darkens to blue—a sign that no visitors are allowed in. I circle the Drip Shipand press the coffee button again. The walk-the-plank output tray stays empty.
Click, click, click, click. My finger is getting sore now.
“Miss?”
I spin around to see a young doctor approaching. She has a kind face, with dark shadows under her eyes and brittle, brown hair. We could battle royally over which of us looks more exhausted.
“You can come back in now. Your father is waking up.” She motions to his room door, now glowing a welcoming pink.