Page 113 of The Atom Between Us

The cot is just long enough for my body, but I can’t find a way to lie on it that doesn’t pull at the stitches or remind me of every other bunk I’ve slept in since Authority rewrote my DNA. I stare up at the ceiling, counting the expansion cracks and mapping the pattern against the veins in my forearm. I lose track after the fifth overlap, and decide I need a shower more than I need another hour alone with the loops in my head.

The tunnels are empty, or so it seems. Every twenty meters, I catch a flicker of movement—someone’s shadow behind a barricade, the hush of an observer at a junction. Sanctuary people don’t do anything by accident. I keep my hands visible, walk slow, and try to look less like the ticking time bomb I am.

Maven had pointed out the showers earlier, just past the laundry and down a half-collapsed corridor marked “WASH” in childlike spray paint. I follow the signs, taking turns left then right, listening to the way my boots sound different on the concrete here—softer, more human. The echoes aren’t Authority-sharp. They blur at the edges.

At the end of the hall is a door patched together from scrap plywood and plastic sheeting. It wobbles on its hinges when I push, and opens into a low room hung with lines of faded towels. The steam is immediate, a cloud of wet warmth that soaks through my clothes. Three shower stalls stand against one wall, separated by curtains that look like they were once promotional banners for Authority reelection campaigns.

I check the room. No one. I choose the furthest stall and lock the curtain behind me.

I strip out of the jumpsuit, wincing as the fabric catches on the bandage. I leave the wrapping mostly intact, only peeling it away enough to check the bleeding. It’s still seeping, but less than before. The paste has gone translucent, the scent of mint now mixed with the earthier smell of sweat and old adhesive.

The water is lukewarm, maybe a degree above freezing, but after days of dust and blood it feels like paradise. I step under the spray and let it sluice over me, careful to keep my shoulder turned away. The water smells faintly of iron and minerals—maybe a trace of chlorine, but mostly the flavor of rock and soil. It runs brown at first, then clear.

I brace my good hand against the tile and let the world shrink to the point of contact: the sting of water on open skin, the slow ache as my muscles relax, the way the numbness in my shoulder softens into something close to relief.

I think about nothing for a while, or try to.

When I finish, I towel off with one of the less moldy linens, then reach for the clean jumpsuit. Someone has replaced it. In its place is a pile of folded clothes: pants, t-shirts, and a dress. I stare at it, confused. I don’t remember anyone telling me about a wardrobe change.

The dress is black lace, worn soft and thin at the seams, with sleeves that brush the elbows and a hem that hits just above the knee. It looks expensive—Authority surplus, maybe, or scavenged from one of the old luxury enclaves. I run my hands over the fabric, feeling the ghost of someone else’s body in the weave.

I pull it on, just to see if it fits. It does.

I stare at myself in the cracked mirror above the utility sink. The dress clings to my hips, flares at the hem. The bandage at my shoulder ruins the symmetry, but the effect is still disorienting. I look like a woman who could walk into any boardroom, any dinner party, and pass for normal. The effect is so strong it makes me dizzy.

I have a flash—memory, but not. I am somewhere bright, surrounded by music and laughter, a glass in my hand. There are hands at my waist, warm and alive, and a feeling of happiness so intense it burns the inside of my ribs. I want to reach for it, to pull it into the present, but it slips away, replaced by the ache behind my temples.

I brace myself on the sink, gasping. The pain is sharp, but brief. When it passes, I am left with the taste of champagne on my tongue, a wordless longing, and the certainty that nothing in the world has ever been this fragile.

I splash water on my face, dry my hands, and gather the rest of the clothes. I fold them, neat as I can, and stack them on the counter for whoever needs them next. I leave the towel on the hook, the dress on my body.

I step out into the hall, shoulders squared, ready to face whatever comes next.

Kang is still gone. The absence leaves the room colder than before.

I don’t want to wait. Not anymore.

I turn down the tunnel, following the line of red bulbs toward the sound of voices. The dress swishes around my knees as I walk, the lace catching at the edge of the bandage.

I think about the memory—the laugh, the hands at my waist. I try to hold on to the feeling, even as it blurs at the edges.

I take a breath, steady myself, and step into the light.

The tunnels are supposed to eat sound, but tonight they magnify everything. The Sanctuary’s shindig has bled out from the big hall and into the arteries of the camp—laughter and argument and the patter of running feet echoing off every slab. I follow the buzz, dress clinging cold and damp to my thighs, hair still wet at the tips. I expect people to stare, but mostly they don’t. A few do double-takes, eyes flicking from the black lace to my bandaged shoulder to my face, trying to decide which story to believe. I let them wonder.

Halfway to the hall, I run into a knot of children clustered at the end of a side passage. There are maybe a dozen, ages five to twelve, all in hand-me-downs and bare feet, their faces streaked with grime and something sugary. They’re staring up, rapt, at something out of sight. Some of the older ones snicker and elbow each other, like they know a secret and can’t decide if it’s safe to share.

One of the girls—a skinny thing with a mop of brown curls—spots me. Her eyes go wide, and she hisses at her neighbor, who turns and instantly starts to giggle.

“Look, look, it’s the doctor lady,” the girl stage-whispers. “She’s wearing a dress.”

Her friends snort and shove each other, but the girl doesn’t move. She watches me with the cool intensity of a predator.

I walk past, curiosity prickling at my neck. At the end of the corridor, the space opens out into a makeshift rec area. It’s nothing but a patch of level concrete, a few folding chairs, and a stack of battered plastic crates arranged into something that could, in another life, be a jungle gym.

On top of the crates: Captain Kang. Or, more accurately, Kang at the center of a mass of children using him as a human climbing wall.

He’s seated, back straight, one arm braced on a crate for balance. Three kids hang from his shoulders, two more straddle his legs. Another is perched on the top of his head, using his close-cropped hair as handholds. His uniform is half-unzipped, the Authority insignia slashed out with black marker, but the bones of command are still there—rigid spine, squared jaw, every muscle poised to take a bullet. It would be funny if it wasn’t so completely at odds with anything I’d ever seen him do.