Free Pucker by Melanie Gideon Page A

flooring. I’ve changed my mind—I don’t want to go. My heart thuds a fetal heartbeat. I feel like I’ve been buried alive.
    I can see Sandros standing above me. “Please, no,” I shout.
    â€œYou’ll be fine,” he mouths.
    I won’t be fine, but this realization comes too late. Within seconds an invisible undertow sucks me under and away. Sandros gets smaller and smaller as I travel into the matter that separates the worlds. I float down through shafts of amber light. The current imprints itself like a thousand hands on my body. Sometimes I manage to stay seated; other times I hang on to the wing-backed chair for dear life. For some reason, the chair has come with me on my journey—I have no idea why. Finally gravity prevails. I fall to the ground like some animal on all fours, my hands groping around for something solid to grasp.
    â€œQuicksilver, Thomas,” a voice says. “Welcome. You’re the first to arrive.”

SIXTEEN
    I COLLAPSE ONTO MY STOMACH, EXHAUSTED.
    â€œYou have two minutes and forty-five seconds until the next immigrant is due,” the voice adds. “Garabedian, Rose, arriving in a Pacesaver Scout electric wheelchair, model RF4. At the speed she’s coming, her wheelchair could crush you. I suggest you move.”
    That gets me going. I spring to my feet and take a quick survey of my surroundings. I inhale feverishly, gulping in the smells like a deer, relying on a sort of animal GPS. My senses seem to have been amplified by passing through the portal and I’m assaulted by the forest landscape and its heady scents. Dizzy and disoriented, I stagger backward, fighting nausea.
    What hits me first is the fundamental scent of Isaura, a mixture of pine needles and sun. Somehow the smell is different from what it would be in America, more potent and energizing. Probably because there’s no pollution in Isaura: it’s the smell of a world that has remained stalwartly primitive. A part of me appreciates that, and a part of me despises it. I’ve grown rather attached to America, toxic waste and all.
    â€œOnce you’re done retching, would you mind throwing your chair on the pile?” a voice asks.
    I forgot I’m not alone. There’s a large, muscular man standing next to a team of horses hitched up to a wagon. Another memory surfaces, threatening to topple me, and I see my father sitting in just such a wagon, leaning down to haul me up onto the seat beside him. I struggle to remain composed and move toward the man, my hand extended.
    â€œNo need for that,” he says, averting his gaze. “Best way to help me out is to put your chair with the rest.”
    â€œI’m Thomas.”
    â€œI’m aware of that. You’re on the list,” he says.
    â€œWho are you?” I ask.
    â€œI’m Nigel 581. Please do as I ask.”
    It seems like business as usual. If the Isaurians are expecting me, they haven’t let on yet.
    Nigel points to a huge pile of items: wheelchairs, walkers, slings, and canes—all the accoutrements of lives left behind. I lug the wing-backed chair over, where it looks ludicrously out of place.
    Garabedian, Rose, arrives a minute later. She’s a middle-aged woman wearing a flowered housedress.
    â€œI’m here!” she cries, her eyes darting around wildly. I will later find out she has been paralyzed from the waist down since the age of twelve—clearly she had no qualms about leaving her life behind.
    Nigel retrieves Rose, carries her to the cart, and props her up on pillows. He will carry her everywhere after she’s Changed.
    â€œDo I have to leave my wheelchair?” asks Rose.
    I can imagine what she’s feeling. The chair’s her freedom. Plus it’s probably expensive. I don’t see how leaving it to rot in the woods will do anybody any good.
    â€œCouldn’t you use the parts for something?” I ask Nigel.
    â€œWhat