Free Harmonic by Erica O’Rourke Page B

not trying to change you. . . . I just want to understand it better. See if I can be a part of it too.”
    Before now, I’d thought that was impossible. I am the job, and there’s no room for anything else. But she makes me want to find room. She makes me think that Walking shouldn’t be my whole life. If Laurel can change, I can try to meet her halfway.
    I clink my mug against hers. “Drink up. We’ve got a lot of Walking to do.”

CHAPTER NINE
    W e leave without saying good-bye to Del. Violin music drifts down from the attic, her own composition. It’s the only song she plays lately.
    â€œIt sounds so sad,” Laurel says, stopping to listen. “Mournful.”
    I can’t speak past the lump in my throat. Del’s song hollows me out tonight in a way it hasn’t before. It’s not just sympathy, but fear: that she’ll never move beyond these measures of loss, that love has the power to break someone like this. That it might break me, too, someday.
    Laurel watches me try to speak, and takes pity on me.
    â€œI can’t believe you do this all winter,” she says with forced cheer. “How do Cleavers keep from freezing to death?”
    I’m not Del; Laurel is not Simon; we are not as they were. But hope can make you vulnerable, too. I shake my head as if it will dislodge my worries, make my tone match hers.
    â€œThe power of layers,” I say. “And coffee.”
    We’re so bundled up, sporting an array of down and wool and polar fleece, the heater of Laurel’s bright red Mazda is virtually unnecessary. We leave the car in its usual spot in Lakeview, her neighborhood, and cross over using a pivot outside one of the innumerable bars. The map points us in the direction of Wrigley Field, a few blocks away, so we set out, moving briskly.
    There’s no instability here—the Echo resonates at a low, steady thrum. Even this late, traffic whizzes by, and the El station spews clusters of people at regular intervals.
    â€œHalf a block more,” I say, glancing at my screen. The pivot flashes erratically, like a strobe light. “No wonder it was on the Repertoire.” Discord surrounds the rift, like someone flipping through radio channels.
    Laurel’s eyes have gone wide and worried. I forget that she hasn’t Walked anywhere unstable since she was Del’s age. Archivists don’t need to deal with cleavings.
    Her nerves are contagious, and I stop ten yards away. “Forget it. Let’s go home. Enforcement can handle this.”
    She swallows and sets her shoulders, steeling herself. But she can’t stop staring at the pivot. “I can handle it.”
    â€œThis Echo’s really unstable,” I say. “Worse than you’re used to.”
    â€œI have cleaved before,” she points out. “I got a license, same as you.”
    â€œFine. But we stay together, and close to a pivot. Echoes can go bad faster than you’d think.”
    Park World went bad so quickly because of Simon’s anomaly; this Echo should be okay long enough for us to investigate.
    But having Laurel here changes things. My hands are unsteady as I reach through the pivot and find the correct frequency. The string skitters beneath my fingers, but it’s not out of control. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to disintegrate at a touch.
    â€œStay close,” I warn, and begin to cross over.
    The cold vanishes. The only thing I can feel is the weight of the air as it presses against me, heavy and churning like the sea. I tighten my grip on Laurel’s wrist and force my way through.
    Winter returns first. The bitter wind numbs my fingers but I keep moving, and when we finally emerge, reality is fighting with itself: color leaching from the people and buildings in some spots, and flowing back into them in others. On one side of the street, the buildings slump as if melting into the ground, passersby unaware that