Free Spark by Rachael Craw Page B

came round in the bedroom at the governor’s, the way she questioned me. She’d been afraid I was a Stray.
    “These are common feelings post-assignment,” Carolyn says. “They’ll pass.”
    A chair creaks, fabric brushes, a plastic clipping sound.
    “I’m overdue,” Miriam says, like she’s answered a question. “I can barely feel it.”
    “Hence the delay in your signal registering. I should’ve checked on you sooner, Miriam, updated your tracker. I’m sorry to have put you at risk. If you wish to make a negligence complaint, that would be fair.”
    “No. Of course not.”
    “If you’re certain. Tip your head.” An electronic beep follows. “Something’s not right.”
    I dig my nails into the back of my hand. My ears pop and I lose the conversation as fear floods in. She’s sensed me. She will be up the stairs any minute. I can’t hear past the static in my head. She has some kind of signal scanner and the reading is wrong because I’m up here confusing reception. Frozen, I wait for threatening footsteps on the stairs. They come into the hall. The jingle of keys. Miriam’s voice. A response. The front door opens then closes. Silence.
    I sit up in bed, heavy in head and limb.
    Car doors open and close.
    Two slams.
    The engine revs and the car pulls away.
    Two slams?
    Heaving the blankets off, I rise shakily to my feet and shuffle past my waiting-to-be-unpacked boxes. I pause at the door. “Miriam?” I take cautious steps out onto the landing and lean on the rail. “Miriam?” No reply. Afraid to fall, I strangle the banister, forcing my lead-heavy legs downstairs, but I can tell she’s gone. The house is empty. I’m alone.
    At a total loss I stand in the hall, staring into space. I turn to the front door as though I expect it might open again and Miriam will appear and start explaining things. There on the wooden crossbeams hangs a yellow sticky note. She’s written only one word, “WAIT!” The capital letters and exclamation mark, full of promise and warning. She’ll return soon and I mustn’t do anything stupid.
    I pull the piece of paper off the door and shuffle into the living room, flicking the lamp on, slumping in the old wingback. Buffy looks up from the couch, ready to forgive me for the sake of a warm lap. I let her come and jump onto my knee, stroking her with my good hand. I stare at the sticky note and Miriam’s familiar hand writing. I can do as I am told, can’t I?

    But after a couple of hours, I’m not so sure.
    My thumb aches. I run my tongue over a bite inside my lip, raw, coppery. The lump on the back of my head is tender when it bumps against the headrest. The clock on the mantelpiece reads half-past three and the undertow of bone-deep fatigue pulls at me, but I can’t let myself fall asleep. I finger the sticky note, waiting with my stitches and my horror and a mouthful of unasked questions. I relive the Governor’s Ball detail by detail, linger over Jamie’s smile, his embrace and my humiliation. If I close my eyes and really concentrate, can I remember the smell of his skin? I shake myself. As if anything like that matters any more. Miriam’s singleness now makes total sense. Mom had blamed her pickiness, her crazy schedule, but really, what hope is there for romance when your life is ruled by mutant DNA?
    It’s like manning a valve, allowing my mind to trace back on the night without letting emotion overwhelm me. Kitty’s face blazes, interspersed with flashes of Miriam’s alley memory and the stitching of my skin. I catalogue every male face I can remember from the party, casting them in the role of lurking psychopath. It doesn’t help. I mistrust every one of them, from obnoxious Richard to helpful Aiden. How many people touched her, hugged her, or shook her hand in one day?
    Behind all this surges the enormity of my new life, the genetic mistake that runs in my blood, the wrongness of me in skin, muscle and bone. I wait for Miriam. I need Miriam but I want