39 * Connor

"There are places you could go," Ariana told him, "and a guy as smart as you has a decent chance of surviving to eighteen."

He's back at the freeway overpass, on the ledge behind the exit sign. It was once his favorite escape spot/make-out spot/danger spot. This time, it feels like none of those things. And this time he's alone.

He has been to many of the "places" Ariana had referred to. None of them were as safe as he wished they'd be. He did survive to eighteen, though. That should be enough, but it's not. Twilight gives way to night as he nests there, on the overpass, gathering fortitude.

Ariana, a girl he thought he loved before he actually knew what love was, had promised to go with him when he kicked AWOL, but when he showed up at her door in the middle of the night, she wouldn't even step over the threshold. It was as if there was an invisible barrier between them that could not be breached. She was remorseful, but more than that, she seemed relieved to be on the other side of that door, still welcome in her own home. It made it painfully clear how truly alone he was.

Connor was angry at her that night, and he held on to that anger for a long time. Now, however, he's more angry at himself. Wanting her to join him in this seedy fugitive life was pure selfishness. If he truly cared for her, he would have protected her from it, rather than pull her into it.

So much has changed since then. Connor remembers hearing somewhere that it takes seven years for one's body to purge itself of all its biological matter and replace it. Every seven years, everyone is literally a new person. For Connor, he couldn't be more different after two years. It's as if he's been unwound and put back together again.

Will his parents recognize the change? Will they care? Perhaps they'll see a stranger at their door. Or maybe they'll be strangers to him. And then there's his brother, Lucas. Connor can't help but imagine him as the same thirteen-year-old he was. He won't be. What must it be like to be the younger brother of the notorious Akron AWOL. Lucas must despise him.

The journey here began well enough. Sonia didn't offer him her car, of course. They both knew he had to leave no ties to the antique shop, in case he got caught. Instead he stole a car that had small dunes of runoff mud wedged beneath the tires, a clear indication that it hadn't been moved for a while, and wouldn't be immediately missed. He could probably bring it back, park it in the same place and the owners wouldn't even know it was gone.

The drive from Akron to Columbus took less than two hours. That was the easy part. But actually going to his old front door-that was a different story.

The reconnaissance ride through his neighborhood earlier that afternoon was the first indication of how difficult this would be. Memories of his pre-AWOL life kept leaping out so vividly, he sometimes swerved the car as if they were actual obstacles in his path-just as he did when he retrieved the stem cells with Risa and Beau. What a waste that whole excursion will have been if they can't fix the printer. He can tell himself his reason for going home is to enlist his father's help in repairing it, but Risa was right, it's just an excuse. Still, if they've had the change of heart he dreams they've had, it wouldn't be out of the question.

When he drove through his neighborhood today, it looked remarkably the same. Somehow in his mind's eye, Connor imagined it would look vaguely postapocalyptic: overgrown, underwatered, and indefinably forlorn, as if somehow the entire suburb suffered without him. But no. The lawns and hedges were all trimmed to good-neighbor standards. He considered driving down Ariana's street, but decided against it. Some parts of the past need to stay exactly where they are.

When he finally turned onto his street, he had to keep both hands firmly on the wheel to keep them from shaking.

Home sweet home.

It looked perfectly inviting on the outside, even if the invitation was false. For a moment, it crossed his mind that his family might have moved-until he saw the LASITR1 license plate on a shiny new Nissan coupe in the driveway. His brother's? No, Lucas would be fifteen now, still too young to have a license. Perhaps one of his parents downsized from a sedan, having one less son to take up space.

A window was open upstairs, and Connor could hear the riffs of an electric guitar. Only then did he remember that his brother was begging for one around the time their parents signed Connor's unwind order. The music bears none of the acoustic skills of Cam Comprix. It's raucously dissonant-just the kind of thing that would irritate their father. Good for Lucas.

Connor had driven by twice, scouring the street for hidden officers in unmarked cars, and found none. No one would still be on the lookout for him here, now that the Juvenile Authority is convinced that the Hopi are giving Connor political asylum halfway across the country.

He could easily have made his appearance then-there was no good reason to delay it-but he made this detour anyway as a stalling tactic.

He needed to weigh Risa's dire warnings about going home.

He needed to search his own heart to know if he really needs to risk this.

So he went to the ledge, like he had done so many times in the past when he needed to think.

The ledge is cramped and crisscrossed with the webs of oblivious spiders who have no concept of a world larger than this overpass. Funny, but all the time he spent here brooding over how unfair his life was-in the days before it actually became unfair-Connor never knew what the sign actually read on the other side. He found out that day he drove past it with Risa and Beau.

THIS LANE MUST EXIT.

Thinking about it makes him laugh, although he can't say exactly why.

It's dark out now. It's been dark for a while. If he's going to do this, he can't wait much longer. He wonders if they'll invite him in, and if they do, will he accept? He knows he has to keep the visit short, just in case they secretly call the police. He'll have to watch them. Keep them both in sight the whole time he's there. That is, if he goes in at all. He's still not beyond aborting the whole thing at the last minute.

Finally he pulls himself over the railing, leaving the ledge behind, and returns to the car, which he parked nearby. He takes his time starting it. He takes his time driving to his street. It's so unlike him to do anything slowly, but this act of return-it has such inertia, it's like pushing a boulder uphill. He can only hope it doesn't roll back to crush him.

Some lights are on in the house: the living room lights downstairs and in Lucas's room upstairs. The light is off in the room that had been his. He wonders what it is now. A sewing room? No that's stupid, his mother didn't sew. Maybe just storage for all the junk that always accumulates in the house. Or maybe they left it like it was. Is there actually a part of him that hopes that? He knows that's even less likely than a sewing room.

He passes the house, parks down the street, and pulls the four pages of his letter out of his pocket. He read it several times while on the ledge to prepare himself for this moment. It didn't.

He walks past the driveway and turns down the little flagstone path to the front door. Anticipation speeds his heart and makes it feel as if it's rising in his chest, trying to escape.

Maybe he'll just hand them the letter and leave. Or maybe he'll talk to them. He doesn't yet know. It's the not knowing that makes it so hard-not knowing what they will do, but even worse, having no clue what he's going to do either.

But whatever happens, good or bad, it will bring closure. He knows it will.

He's halfway to the front door when a figure steps out of the shadows of the porch and stands directly in his path. Then suddenly, there's a sharp stinging in Connor's chest. He's down on the ground before he even realizes he's been shot with a tranq, and his vision goes blurry, so he can't even tell who his attacker is as he draws near. For a moment something about his face makes him think of Argent Skinner-but it's not Argent. Not by a long shot.

"How unceremonious," the man says. "This moment should be grander."

And Roland's fist, which holds the pages of the letter so tightly, relaxes, letting the pages fall free as Connor plunges into the chemical void.

40 * Mom.

Claire Lassiter takes a moment from her exhausting task of maintaining appearances. She thought she heard something out front and it's giving her an odd sense of prescient anticipation, although she doesn't know why. It's nothing new. She jumps every time a pinecone falls on the roof, or a squirrel scuttles over the rain gutters. She's been so edgy for so long, she can't remember the last time she felt calm.

She definitely needs a vacation. They all do. But they won't take one. There are tickets for a vacation they never took in a drawer upstairs somewhere. They ought to just throw them away, but they don't. Funny how their lives have become all about inactivity.

A sound outside. Yes, there is definitely something happening on their front lawn. She strides to the door and opens it, expecting to see perhaps some of Lucas's friends. Or a dog that got off its leash. Or maybe . . . or maybe . . .

Or maybe nothing at all. There's no one there and nothing to see but some litter blowing across the lawn. She lingers for a moment daring the night to offer her something better, and when it doesn't, she gets anxious, as if standing there is somehow tempting fate. So she closes the door once more.

"What is it?" her husband asks. "Was someone at the door?"

"No," she tells him. "I thought I heard something. Probably just another pinecone rolling off the roof."

Meanwhile, in their front yard, several pieces of paper are taken by the breeze to be victimized by shrubs and sprinklers and tires, until nothing remains but illegible pulp, never to be read by anyone, ripe only for the bedding of bird nests and the harsh spinning whisk of tomorrow morning's street sweeper.

Part Five.

Mouth of the Monster.

BODY ART: CREATIONS MADE OF HUMAN FLESH, BLOOD & BONES.

WebUrbanist article by "Steph," filed under Sculpture & Craft in the Art category. 8/23/2010 . . . The human body has been used as a canvas for all sorts of art, but perhaps more interesting and rare is the use of human body parts as artistic media. . . . These 12 artists have made human body art that is often controversial and sometimes surprisingly poignant.

Marc Quinn.

If you're going to do a self-portrait, why not go all out and make a sculpture out of your own frozen blood? That's what sculptor Marc Quinn has done. . . . Quinn's 2006 version of 'Self' was purchased by the UK's National Portrait Gallery for over $465,000.

Andrew Krasnow.

. . . [I]s Andrew Krasnow's controversial skin art really a sensitive reflection on human cruelty? The artist creates flags, lampshades, boots and other everyday items from the skin of people who donated their bodies to medical science. Krasnow says that each piece is a statement on America's ethics. . . .

Gunther Von Hagens Perhaps no artist using actual human flesh as his chosen medium has gained such renown as Gunther Von Hagens, the man behind the "Body Worlds" exhibition of plasticized human corpses. But for all the outcry regarding Von Hagens' supposedly "disrespectful" usage of human bodies, there's just as much fascination. . . .

Franois Robert.

Franois Robert's fascination with human bones started with an unusual discovery: an articulated human skeleton hidden inside a presumably empty locker that he purchased. Realizing the potential for artistic expression, Robert traded in the wired skeleton for a disarticulated one so that he could arrange the parts into shapes and designs. . . .

Anthony-Noel Kelly.

British artist Anthony-Noel Kelly followed in the footsteps of many artists before him, including Michelangelo, when he closely studied human body parts for his work. But unlike those artists, Kelly illegally smuggled human remains from the Royal College of Surgeons and used them to cast sculptures in plaster and silver paint. Kelly was found guilty of this unusual crime in 1998 and spent nine months in jail. . . .

Tim Hawkinson.

Tiny and delicate, almost diaphanous, this little bird skeleton at first seems remarkable simply because it is so well preserved despite the fragility of bird bones. But those aren't bones at all-they're the fingernail clippings of the artist. . . .

Wieki Somers.

Seemingly carved from concrete, the sculptures of Wieki Somers look weighty and hyper-realistic despite their lack of color. But these everyday objects . . . are more organic than they appear-they're made from human ashes. . . . "We may offer Grandpa a second life as a useful rocking chair or even as a vacuum cleaner or a toaster," she told the Herald Sun. "Would we then become more attached to these products?"

Pictures and full article can be found at: http://weburbanist.com/2010/08/23/body-art-creations-made-of-human-flesh-blood-bones/.

41 * Broadcast.

Small bandwidth, tall antenna. Endless cornfields. Corn took over the Midwest. The entire heartland is now genetically engineered maize for the masses.

A team of five pull off a country road. They are armed with weapons originally supplied by the folks who supplied the folks, who pay for the folks, who run the folks behind clappers. Now those weapons are used at crosspurposes to what those wealthy suppliers intended. Whatever they intended.

The team of five always chooses its targets carefully. Smalltime, old-fashioned radio stations broadcasting from a dump on a two-block main street, or better yet, in the middle of nowhere, like this one at the edge of a cornfield. The more isolated the better. By current calculation, it would take the local deputy about nine minutes at top speed, siren blaring, to get to this particular spot from the coffee shop where he's currently having breakfast.

They drive a stolen van not yet reported stolen. Only way to go. These trying times turn honest kids to crime, and criminals into murderers. Fortunately there are no true criminals in this bunch. Perhaps that's why they walk in through the front door, instead of sneaking in the back.

"A fine morning to you. I'm pleased to let you know that your coffee break begins early today!"

When you enter a minimally staffed establishment with guns that look like they've been ripped off the deck of a battleship, no one fights back. Whether the guns are actually armed is immaterial. In truth, one of them is, but that's only in case of dire emergency.

"My associate may be smaller than his weapon, but he's happy about it. Trigger-happy, that is, so I'd avoid sudden movements if I was you."

Even the armchair special-ops potatoes of the broadcast facility, who fancy themselves the heroes of every TV show they watch, are subdued into stunned silence. They put their hands up, mimicking the way they've seen it done by the nonspeaking extras.

"Kindly step into the storeroom-plenty of space for all. Grab a legal pad, if you like, and write a memoir of your harrowing experience at our ruthless hands."

Someone tries to surreptitiously dial a phone in his pocket. That's only to be expected.

"By all means, use your phones to call for help. Of course, we've blocked outgoing phone signals, but we wouldn't want to deny you your false sense of hope."

The intruders lock the radio station staff in the storeroom, and the staff makes the best of their time in the tight quarters. The station manager stews. A secretary cries. Others grab snacks from the shelf and nervously eat, pondering their own mortality.

With the staff locked safely away, the intruders take over the broadcast for a total of five minutes, linking into a radio grid, increasing its effective broadcast range by a thousand miles. Not bad for five AWOLs.

On their way out, they silently unlock the store room, something the station staff discovers about a minute later. They emerge like turtles from a shell to find the station empty of intruders, but still broadcasting. Not dead air, because no radio station should ever suffer the indignation of radio silence. Instead it broadcasts the same signature song Hayden's guerrilla broadcast team always leaves behind to mark their patronage. Lush tones croon slick on the airwaves.

"I've got you . . . under my skin. . . ."

42 * Lev

Days come and go on the Arpache reservation without much fanfare. It's not that life is simple, because where in a modern world can life be called simple anymore? But it is an unencumbered life. By choosing isolation, the Arpache have successfully protected themselves, remaining safe and sane in a world gone foul. As they are the wealthiest of tribal nations, there are those who call the Arpache Rez the ultimate gated community. They are not blind to the things that go on beyond the gate, but are certainly removed by several degrees.

Naturally any attempt to bring the world a few degrees closer would be met with powerful resistance. Yet Lev truly believed he could make a difference. After all he's been through, he still cannot come to terms with disappointment. He wonders if that keeps him human, or if it's a flaw in his character. Perhaps a dangerous one.

With the door locked, Lev stands before a bathroom mirror, in the Tashi'ne home, making eye contact with his reflection, trying to connect with some other version of himself. Who he was, or who he is, or who he might still be.

Kele pounds on the door, impatient as twelve-year-olds tend to be. "Lev, what are you still doing in there? I need in!"

"Go use the other bathroom."

"I can't!" whines Kele. "My toothbrush is in this one."

"Then use someone else's."

"That's gross."