Free The Archived by Victoria Schwab

says Mom. “‘Welcome’ muffins!”
     She doesn’t say it like welcome but rather like Welcome! “You know, to let everyone know that we’re here. What do you think, Mac?”
    In response, I nudge the oven door, and it swings shut with a bang. Something dislodges
     and lands with a tinktinktinktink across the stone before rolling up against her shoe.
    Her smile doesn’t even falter. It turns my stomach, her sickly-sweet-everything’s-better-than-fine
     pep. I’ve seen the inside of her mind, and this is all a stupid act. I lost Ben. I
     shouldn’t have to lose her, too. I want to shake her. I want to say…But I don’t know
     what to say. I don’t know how to get through to her, how to make her see that she’s
     making it worse.
    So I tell the truth. “I think it’s falling apart.”
    She misses my meaning. Or steps around it. “Well then,” she says cheerfully, stooping
     to fetch the metal bolt, “we’ll just use the apartment oven until we get this one
     in shape.”
    With that she turns on her heel and bobs away. I look around, hoping to find Dad,
     and with him some measure of sympathy or at least commiseration, but he’s on the patio,
     staring up at the awnings.
    “Chop chop, Mackenzie,” Mom calls through the door. “You know what they say—”
    “I’m pretty sure no one says it but you—”
    “Up with the sun and just as bright.”
    I look out the window at the light and cringe, and follow.
    We spend the rest of the morning in the apartment baking Welcome! muffins. Or rather, Dad ducks out to run some errands, and Mom makes muffins while
     I do my best to look busy. I could really use a few hours of sleep and a shower, but
     every time I make a move to leave, Mom thinks up something for me to do. While she’s
     distracted pulling a fresh batch from the oven, I dig the Archive list from my pocket.
     But when I unfold it, it’s blank.
    Relief washes over me before I remember that there should be a name on it. I could
     swear I felt the scrawl of a new History being added when I was stuck in the café
     closet. I must have imagined it. Mom sets the tray of muffins on the counter as I
     refold the paper and tuck it away. She drapes a cloth over them, and out of nowhere
     I remember Ben standing on his toes to peek beneath the towel and steal a pinch even
     though it was always too hot and he burned his fingers. It’s like being punched in
     the chest, and I squeeze my eyes shut until the pain passes.
    I beg off baking duty for five minutes just to change clothes—mine smell like Narrows
     air and Archive stacks and café dust. I pull on jeans and a clean shirt, but my hair
     refuses to work with me, and I finally dig a yellow bandana out of a suitcase and
     fashion a headband, trying to hide the mess as best I can. I’m tucking Da’s key beneath
     my collar when I catch sight of the dark spots on my floor and remember the bloodstained
     boy.
    I kneel down, trying to tune out the clatter of baking trays beyond the door as I
     slide off my ring and bring my fingertips to the floorboards. The wood hums against
     my hands as I close my eyes and reach, and—
    “Mackenzie!” Mom calls out.
    I sigh and blink, pushing up from the floor. I straighten just as Mom knocks briskly
     on the door. “Have I lost you?”
    “I’m coming,” I say, shoving the ring back on as her footsteps fade. I cast one last
     glance at the floor before I leave. In the kitchen, the muffins are already wrapped
     in blossoms of cellophane. Mom is filling a basket, chattering about the residents,
     and that’s when I get an idea.
    Da was a Keeper, but he was a detective too, and he used to say you could learn as
     much by asking people as by reading walls. You get different answers. My room has
     a story to tell, and as soon as I can get an ounce of privacy, I’ll read it; but in
     the meantime, what better way to learn about the Coronado than to ask the people in
     it?
    “Hey, Mom,” I say, pushing up my sleeves,