Free Archetype by M. D. Waters

I say and laugh.
    His expression turns serious. “I missed everything.”
    I cup his neck in my palms and bring his lips back to mine. They are warm and pliable and, when his tongue strokes mine a moment later, hungry.
    I come to my senses—not an easy feat—and push away from him. “I should shower. I am going to ruin your nice suit.” It is the dark blue today. My favorite.
    “I don’t care about my suit, but while you do that, I’ll just check in with Arthur.”
    We stroll hand in hand to my floor, where we part outside my room. It takes only a moment to retrieve a clean set of scrubs and another ten minutes to shower.
    I walk into my room, towel-drying my hair, and find Declan flipping through the canvases leaning against one wall. Dr. Travista says he will have someone come by to hang them for me.
    “You like beaches,” he says. It is not a question.
    My chest tightens and I have an urge to explain, as if he has caught me doing something bad, but why should I? I have done nothing wrong. They are only beaches.
    “It is the photograph.” I point to the wall behind me, where the photograph of the ocean hangs. “I have spent many nights wondering what the rest of that beach must look like.”
    He nods, and when he smiles at me, it is tight. His eyelids narrow slightly. “You’re very talented, Emma.”
    Questions are burning a trail through me, none of which he will have the answer to if my painting is new for him, too. Like where I learned to paint. Why I am drawn to the beach and why he seems disturbed by it.
    Questions best left unsaid,
She says, and I am inclined to agree for once. There is something about this that bothers my husband, and I do not want to fuel this fire.
    I lay down my towel and force myself to smile. “Thank you. I will try painting something new. Is there anything you would like to see?”
    His expression softens and he takes me into his arms. “The mountains. Do you have any memory of our home yet?”
    I shake my head. “No. Not yet.”
    “I will bring you some pictures. Arthur says it is a good time to try and jog your memory.”
    My smile is genuine now. “Really? I cannot wait.”
     • • • 
    Today I decide to leave the safety of my hallway. Dr. Travista has already disappeared into the room with the woman he calls “dear.” I spy a painting near the cross section and do not waste time.
    Act like you belong,
She says.
That’s the key.
    I do. At least, I hope I do. I run my fingers over the paintings as I pass, stopping to analyze paint strokes. It is everything I do in my hallway.
    I am nearing my goal and passing the door I suspect to be a room for travel, where all the colors enter or exit. I slow my pace only a little, hoping the door will slide open and give me a peek inside. In my peripheral, the silver doors slide apart and two white lab coats emerge. As casually as I can manage, I kneel and lift a pant leg to scratch my ankle. It is enough to allow me the view of several rows of clear plastic tubes that reach from floor to ceiling and are large enough to hold up to three people, if I had to guess.
    Those take you out of the building,
She tells me.
Probably to other floors, too. They’re teleportation units. Teleport. Teleporting. Teleportation. You know, teleporters.
    Teleporters?
    There is the sensation that She is now rolling Her eyes.
They split you into a million different pieces and send your bits to your destination. You tell it where you want to port and it sends you there. Get it? Tell—a—port.
    This gives me pause and I blink at the painting I finally come to without really looking at it.
That sounds dangerous.
    She sighs.
It used to be. Eons of years ago.
    I know She exaggerates about eons. She is using Her sarcastic, bored voice. She is never patient with my questions.
    This is how I will get home,
I say.
    Yes, Padawan learner. This is how you will get home.
    What is a Pa—
    Never mind.
    “Mrs. Burke.”
    I turn to face the red coat, whom I