Free Vicarious by Paula Stokes Page A

maybe I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
    â€œGet her,” Gideon orders.
    Jesse lifts me back to my feet just before I lose consciousness. He drapes me back onto the reclining chair. His hands feel soft, too soft; they don’t even feel real.
    Nothing feels real.
    â€œThis is a dream,” I say. “This is a dream. This is a dream. Thisisadream.” Maybe if I keep saying it, I can make it come true.
    â€œI wish it were,” Gideon says.
    â€œIt is—look.” I reach across my body and pinch myself. The pain forces my eyes open. I’m in a ViSE room, with Jesse and Gideon. They’re just vague blurry forms, their outlines illuminated by the cherry on Gideon’s cigarette. I try again, biting down on the web of flesh between my thumb and forefinger. Wake up, Winter!
    Gideon gently removes my hand from my mouth and wraps my fingers around the glass of water. He produces a pill bottle from his pocket and shakes out a small white circle.
    I take the sedative from his fingers and wash it down with a couple gulps of water. I press the glass back into his hands. I’m not certain I have the strength to hold it.
    â€œShould we call someone?” Jesse asks.
    â€œNot yet,” Gideon says. “Give us a few minutes, will you?”
    Jesse squeezes my shoulder gently. He turns and leaves, pausing to retrieve the headset from the floor on his way out of the room. He’s going to play it. He’s going to play it and watch my sister die.
    My hands have curled themselves into fists, my fingernails cutting crescent moon gashes into my palms. I am still trying to wake up from this nightmare.
    â€œIt’s not your fault,” Gideon repeats.
    I look accusingly at him. “It is my fault, and yours . I should have been with her, but you—how could you let this happen? You let her freelance and it wasn’t safe and now she’s dead.” The words spray out of my mouth like bullets.
    â€œWe don’t know if this is related to her freelancing.” Gideon lowers his head. “But you’re right. I should have taken better care of her. I should’ve protected her. I failed you both.” His voice cracks and he turns away from me. He walks to the far corner of the room. And then I hear the sobs, deep and racking.
    I was expecting him to deflect responsibility, to tell me it wasn’t my fault or his, to pin the blame completely on a pair of nameless assailants, or perhaps to say my sister’s wild temperament is what killed her. This outpouring of pain and guilt surprises me.
    Gideon sets the glass of water on the floor and sits next to me on the ViSE chair, his head buried in his hands. “Oh, Ha Neul. I keep thinking about what I could’ve done differently.”
    He hasn’t called me by my real name in years, but we live artificial lives and spend our days creating artificial scenarios. I understand why he needs for something in this moment to feel real.
    â€œOppa,” I say softly. I rest my hand on his shoulder and feel him go tense.
    He turns to me, his face still damp with tears. Even in the darkness I can see a thousand emotions breaking loose, pouring forth. “I don’t want to let her go.”
    â€œI don’t either.” I pull him toward me, loop my arms around the small of his back, press my cheek to his chin. “Could you be wrong?” I ask. “Is there any way…”
    He pulls back, shakes his head. “I’ve studied the neural sequences for death in a variety of species. The science is definitive.” He blots at his face with the sleeve of his dobok again.
    The ViSE recordings show neural patterns for pain and fear and so forth. It only makes sense they would show death too. Still, I’m not ready to accept it. “But Rose isn’t one of your mice. She’s my sister. Shouldn’t I know?” I ask. “Shouldn’t I feel different?”
    â€œEveryone wants to believe