Free Extracted by Sherry Ficklin, Tyler Jolley Page B

routine, because he takes the rubber mask and slips it over Sisson’s head, securing the leather straps. Gloves turns on the blender and pulls some shimmering gear-shaped items from his blue conductor’s coat pocket. With Sisson’s head laid back, he starts tossing the gears into the blender.
    “She’s inhaled too much of the time stream. Remaining in it that long isn’t good for the lungs. This should help flush her system. These nanites will eat the remaining Contra from her blood,” Gloves says over the sound of metal grinding metal.
    Sisson convulses. Nobel squats behind her and props her up. Gloves puts his white-gloved hand on her forehead and secures the blender with the other hand.
    I see a yellow powder fill the eye ports of the black rubber gas mask. Sisson’s chest heaves in and out as she gasps for air. I can feel my pulse quicken, and it takes all my self-control to not knock Gloves over and tear the mask off. Then her breathing normalizes.
    “It’s done,” Gloves says.
    I quickly unstrap the mask and watch Sisson’s eyes flutter open. She is mumbling. Stein bends down and strokes Sisson’s sweat-filled hair out of her eyes.
    “You’re safe now,” Gloves says, looking sincerely relieved.
    Sisson reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small vial of black liquid. With shaking hands, she presses it into Nobel’s palm.
    Then her eyes roll back into her head, and she passes out.

S IX
E MBER
    The world is on fire.
    At least, that’s how it feels. The heat is unbearable, scorching not just my exposed skin, but also blistering its way into my lungs and throat with every breath I draw. Even though I don’t dare open my eyes, I know there is no way to escape the inferno. His room is on the second floor, my brain reminds me.
    Even if I can somehow grope my way to the window, there will be no exit there, so I huddle in the farthest corner from the blazing doorway, desperately shielding the person screaming behind me. My new dress is melting off my skin, and the burning lace is blistering my already red arms.
    I don’t recall much. Not how the blaze began, not the name of the person behind me, not even my own name. But the lace I remember. How I’d begged for it, complained that the dress was much too plain without it. And at my insistence, a man with eyes like blue sapphires and a gentle smile had told the frustrated seamstress to add more lace—not the cheap, thin kind, but the thick French lace. My father, I remember now. How could I ever have forgotten him? He smiled at me and bit down on the end of his pipe.
    I was happy.
    Now, all those things are being consumed in grey smoke and burning silk. I cry out, but the sound never escapes my throat. I choke on it.
    For a minute, I’m disconnected from my body—from the pain that’s holding me hostage there. I float as if in a dream.
    The family is having dinner at a long table set with massive crystal dishes and fine china. Mother is smiling meekly as my older sister shows her a book she’s reading. Papa is leaning to his side, speaking in low tones to a man in a uniform whose name I can’t call to mind. Next to me, my little brother is stabbing peas with his fork and feeding them to the dog sitting under the table.
    The scene melts away in flames. I’m in another, darker room. A basement. Mother has set up a large blanket on the dirty floor, and we are eating picnic-style by the light of flickering oil lamps. Her smile is gone, replaced by deep worry lines around her mouth and eyes. Beside me, my brother’s stomach grumbles. I hand him my slice of buttered bread. He smiles up at me and—
    “Anya, go fetch your brother. And make sure he’s in his fine clothes. The photographers are here,” Papa orders, his voice tense and clipped.
    “Yes, Papa.”
    He grabs me by the arm, glancing around at the people beginning to surround us. “He’s your responsibility, Anya. Look after him.”
    His words leave me feeling hollow and confused, but I obey.