9

“Where are we going?” Myra finally asked. Emmet shrugged, checked his

last message from Neric. You're free, Albeck.

    “Where would you like to go?”

***********************************************************************

    She almost cried.

    Yup, definitely too lonely. Definitely way too lonely. How'd you get this

way, little girl, all shut off on your own, in your room all the time? So

weak, so silly. And wandering, off-topic, like a mad woman. Mad. That

word is so archaic.

    “Somewhere... beautiful,” she just said. “Somewhere nice. Somewhere

you can wander around and get lost in and not want to be found.”

    He nodded, inscrutable. She always got chills looking at the elite-- the

eyes that looked at  nothing, the politely expressionless faces; like they

were made of plastic, like they were painted marionettes. She looked away.

    “If that makes sense,” she finished lamely, wishing she were more

eloquent.

******************************************************************************

    She would love the reserve, but he wouldn't take her.   He

changed the car’s course.

**************************************************************

Payne jerked awake.

    He looked up this Albeck Painter, watched the identity fill the screen,

and flicked it away again. It didn't matter-- he knew it didn't matter-- he

would sit doing nothing for hours because it didn't matter, snap at his

secretary because it didn't matter, be up all night watching the ceiling, too

numb to pace, because it didn't matter.

    Emmet, he wrote, and swiped that off.

    Emmet, he wrote, I know how you're feeling. I was the same once, when

I was younger. You stopped me then. Let me stop you now. He stopped,

erased those last two sentences, horrified. Erased the whole thing.

    Emmet, he wrote.