Free The Bumblebee Flies Anyway by Robert Cormier

remember where if they took away his memory?
    Damn it.
    He was disgusted with himself. He was slipping, losing his grip.
    Forget it, toss the ridiculous little piece of paper away. But he couldn’t.
    He didn’t entirely trust the Handyman’s experiments, aware that there was always an element of risk. He had to do something in the face of this latest risk. Leave evidenceof his identity behind, someplace,
someplace
where he could find it if things went wrong. In case they wiped his memory away and couldn’t bring it back.
    It would be terrible to wake up and not know your name, not know who you were.
    Rhythm, tempo. Let the blood flow.
    Come on. Where could he hide the paper? Someplace out of sight but easy to find.
    Now a new possibility appalled him. Suppose they didn’t take him back here but kept him upstairs, in isolation? What good would a hidden note in his room be?
    And then the solution came. Simple, beautiful.
    He’d carry this small square of paper with him. On his person. His body.
    Wait a minute, let’s be logical now. Start from the beginning. He’d be wearing certain articles of clothing during the treatment if standard procedure was followed. A green “Johnny” that buttoned in the back and came to your knees. Shorts, no undershirt. No place to hide anything. He remembered spy stories in which secret agents swallowed pieces of paper containing important information. Which was impossible in this case, of course, pointless.
    He looked down at his body, a body he had never taken any pride in before he came to the Complex, too aware of his shortcomings, the slightly bowed legs, his arms too long for his height. But here, compared to the others wasting away, whose bodies were deteriorating day by day, he had felt good about himself for the first time, realizing that even beauty, like Mazzo’s, wasn’t any use if you couldn’t live.
    Barney drew up his shirtsleeve, saw the array of puncture wounds from the needles. A Band-Aid covered themost recent puncture. And Barney suddenly saw the perfect hiding place for the small piece of paper: under a Band-Aid. He would fold the paper until it was small enough to fit beneath the small bandage, the feel of the paper certain to call attention to itself when he awoke. There was a chance that the doctor might discover it first, but he had to take that chance. And he’d reduce the risk of discovery by applying the Band-Aid to the inside of his thigh. Or some other place. Between his toes, maybe?
    He had a feeling that this act of subterfuge would prove futile, that it was impossible to fool the Handyman. But it was worth trying. Sitting here in this forlorn room, he felt almost as if he didn’t exist. But at least he could cling to his identity, his name, and do something about it.
    “I am Barney Snow,” he said aloud, enunciating carefully.
    His voice echoed in the air.
    There was no answering voice to say: Yes, you are Barney Snow.

 6 
    H ERE she comes,” Mazzo said.
    Barney heard heels clicking in the corridor. Ordinarily, the passage of feet in the halls of the Complex was quiet, muted, footsteps like whispers as patients and staff ghosted by in rubber-soled shoes or slippers. But the heels he heard now were like small staccato shouts, alien in this place, threatening somehow.
    Barney stood away from Mazzo’s bed, his back to the window. The open venetian blinds laddered the room with sunlight, filling it with a false kind of cheer. Barney squinted, studied the apprehension on Mazzo’s face. He should be happy to see Mazzo looking worried, but Barney himself didn’t exactly feel at ease. He didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire between Mazzo and his sister.
    The sound of heels grew closer, a rhythm established, as if she were the drum majorette in an invisible parade. Then the footsteps faltered, became uncertain, and stopped altogether just outside the door. Was she gathering her wits to prepare herself for the meeting with her dying brother? The