“It’s over,” calls Wesley, stepping toward him.
Jackson stares at the elevator shaft, then back at us.
And then he jumps.
Wes and I groan together and turn, racing for the stairs.
Histories don’t bleed. Histories can’t die. But they do feel pain. And that jump had to hurt. Hopefully it will at least slow him down.
A scream cuts through the air, but not from the elevator shaft. Someone in 2C lets out a strain of words between a cry and a curse as we hit the landing. Halfway down the main staircase we see Jackson clutching his ribs—serves him right—and making a limping but determined beeline for the front doors of the Coronado.
“Key!” shouts Wes, and I dig the black handkerchief from my pocket.
“Right for Returns,” I say as he grabs it, gets a foot up on the dark wood railing and jumps over, dropping the last ten feet and somehow landing upright. I hit the base of the stairs as Wes catches Jackson and slams him against the front doors hard enough to crack the glass. And then I’m there, helping hold the thrashing History against the door as Wes gets the Crew key into the lock and turns hard to the right. The scene beyond the glass is sunlight and streets and passing cars, but when Wes turns the key, the door flies open, ripped from his grip as if by wind, and reveals a world of white beyond. Impossible white, and Jackson Lerner falling through it.
The door slams shut with the same windlike force, shattering the already cracked glass. The Crew key sits in the lock, and through the glassless frame, a bus rambles past. Two people across the street have turned to see what reduced the door to littered shards and wood.
I stagger back. Wesley gives a dazed laugh just before his legs buckle.
I crouch beside him even though the motion sends ripples of pain through my ribs.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Wes stares up at the broken door. “We did it,” he says brightly. “Just like Crew.”
Blood is running down his face from the gash along his cheekbone, and he’s gazing giddily at the place where the door to Returns formed. I reach out and slide the key from the lock. And then I hear it. Sirens. The people from across the street are coming over now, and the wail of a cop car is getting more and more distinct. We have to get out of here. I can’t possibly explain all this.
“Come on,” I say, turning toward the elevator. Wes gets shakily to his feet and follows. I hit the call button, cringing at the thought of using this death trap, but I don’t exactly want to retrace the path of our destruction right now, especially with Wes covered in blood. He hesitates when I pull open the grille, but climbs in beside me. The doors close, and I punch the button for the third floor and then turn to look at him. He’s smiling. I can’t believe he’s smiling. I shake my head.
“Red looks good on you,” I say.
He wipes at his cheek, looks down at his stained hands.
“You know, I think you’re right.”
Water drips from the ends of my hair onto the couch, where I’m perched, staring down at the Crew key cupped in my hands. I listen to the shhhhhhh of the shower running, wishing it could wash away the question that’s nagging at me as I turn Da’s key over and over in my hands.
How did Roland know?
How did he know that we’d need the key today? Was it a coincidence? Da never believed in coincidence, said chance was just a word for people too lazy to learn the truth. But Da believed in Roland. I believe in Roland. I know Roland. At least, I think I know him. He’s the one who first gave me a chance. Who took responsibility for me. Who bent the rules for me. And sometimes broke them.
The water shuts off.
Jackson was returned. I returned him myself. How did he escape a second time in less than a week? He should have been filed in the red stacks. There’s no way he would have woken twice. Unless someone woke him and let him out.
The bathroom door opens, and Wesley stands there, his black hair no longer spiked but hanging down into his eyes, the eyeliner washed away. His key rests against his bare chest. His stomach is lean, the muscles faint but visible. Thank god he’s wearing pants.
“All done?” I ask, pocketing the Crew key.
“Not quite. I need your help.” Wesley retreats into the bathroom. I follow.
An array of first-aid equipment covers the sink. Maybe I should have taken him to the Archive, but the cut on his face isn’t so bad—I’ve had worse—and the last thing I want to do is try to explain to Patrick what happened.
Wesley’s cheek is starting to bleed again, and he dabs at it with a washcloth. I fish around in my private medical stash until I find a tube of skin glue.
“Lean down, tall person,” I say, trying to touch his face with only the swab and not my fingers. It makes my grip unsteady, and when I slip and paint a dab of the skin glue on his chin, Wes sighs and takes my hand. The noise flares through my head, metal and sharp.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Let go.”
“No,” he says, plucking the swab and the skin glue from my grip, tossing both aside and pressing my hand flat against his chest. The noise grows louder. “You’ve got to figure it out.”
I cringe. “Figure what out?” I ask, raising my voice above the clatter.
“How to find quiet. It’s not that hard.”
“It is for me,” I snap. I try to push back, try to block him out, try to put up a wall, but it doesn’t work, only makes it worse.
“That’s because you’re fighting it. You’re trying to block out every bit of noise. But people are made of noise, Mac. The world is full of noise. And finding quiet isn’t about pushing everything out. It’s just about pulling yourself in. That’s all.”
“Wesley, let go.”
“Can you swim?”
The rock-band static pounds in my head, behind my eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Good swimmers don’t fight against the water.” He takes my other hand, too. His eyes are bright, flecked with gold even in the dim light. “They move with it. Through it.”
“So?”
“So stop fighting. Let the noise go white. Let it be like water. And float.”
I hold his gaze.
“Just float,” he says.
It goes against every bit of reason in me to stop pushing back, to welcome the noise.
“Trust me,” he says.
I let out an unsteady breath, and then I do it. I let go. For a moment, Wesley washes over me, louder than ever, rattling my bones and echoing in my head. But then, little by little, the noise evens, ebbs. It grows steadier. It turns to white noise. It is everywhere, surrounding me, but for the first time it doesn’t feel like it’s in me. Not in my head. I let out a breath.
And then Wesley’s grip is gone, and so is the noise.
I watch him fight back a smile and lose. What comes through isn’t smug, or even crooked. It’s proud. And I can’t help it. I smile a little too. And then the headache hits, and I wince, leaning on the bathroom sink.
“Baby steps,” says Wes, beaming. He offers me the tube of skin glue. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind fixing me up? I don’t want this to scar.”
“I won’t be able to hide this,” he says, examining my work in the mirror.
“Makes you look tough,” I say. “Just say you lost a fight.”