Catherine Asaro - Nebula Awards Showcase 2013

She waits for you to respond. As if it matters what you might say.

Again she sighs. “At least come to the common room for lunch.”

If the idea of lunch finally gives you a reason to get out of bed, go to section 557.

If you’re finally recognizing that you’re not the one making the decisions in your life, go to section 601.

Somebody has started a fire with some old campaign signs from a dumpster, and you join the others huddling around it. The bridge’s supports block most of the wind, and after a while, for the first time today, you stop shivering.

“Nice hat,” says a big guy, meaningfully.

Somebody at the hospital gave it to you when they kicked you out. It’s the warmest thing you’re wearing, stuffed with fleece, and with furry earflaps.

If you kick the guy in the nuts and run, go to section 615.

If you stand there waiting to see what the higher system is going to make you do next, go to section 620.

You’re standing in line at the mission, leaning against the counter to take some weight off your feet. A lady asks whether you’d like brown sugar on your oatmeal.

If you shake your head and keep shuffling down the line, go to section 634.

If you stand there, waiting, until finally somebody drops a clump of brown sugar onto your oatmeal and shoves you ahead, go to section 652.

Your sign isn’t working at all today. You glance down to your lap and notice that you’re holding the sign with your good hand. Dumb.

A brown leather wallet drops onto the cracked sidewalk, right in front of you. The guy who must have dropped it is sauntering away, oblivious, eating one of those big pretzels.

Even without leaning closer, you can see a lot of bills in there. Probably cards, too—you could maybe sell those cards.

If you pick up the wallet and stick it inside your coat, go to section 664.

If you just sit there, and eventually somebody else notices the wallet and grabs it, go to section 701.

The sky is full of fluffy clouds today. You’ve got a good view, except for some tree branches. You must have slept on a park bench last night, since that’s where you find yourself now. You can’t recall the details, though.

If you’re just going to lie there all day, go to section 701.

If eventually you get so bored that you sit up, go to section 702.

At first it’s really early in the morning and you’ve got this part of the park to yourself. But soon a thickening parade of office workers marches past your bench. Some of them glance your way for a second, and then lift their coffee or their phone to block the view.

If you ask one of them what they think they’re staring at, go to section 708.

If all you do is wait to see what’s going to happen next, go to section 721.

There aren’t as many office workers now, but between the kids and the joggers and the drunks there’s still a sort of parade.

If you lie back down on the bench, go to section 724.

If your fist punches somebody in the shoulder for no reason, go to section 801.

“Ow!” says the woman who had just sat herself beside you on the bench. “What was that for?”

You’re staring at your fist.

“No reason,” you say.

“Yeah?” She squints at you for a few seconds.

Then she punches your arm. Pretty hard, actually.

“Hey!”

“So,” she says, “if we’re done with that, I have a proposition for you.”

You give her a closer look. Mid-thirties. Dressed like a lot of women you used to know, in a long crinkly black skirt and a brightly striped top from Peru or Mexico or someplace like that. Hair falling in waves to the base of her neck.

Redhead.

She continues, “Community House—maybe you’ve heard of us? One of our residents got himself kicked out last night, so this is your lucky day. You get a bedroom to yourself, and three meals. Only two rules: You don’t do anything illegal in the house, and you don’t piss off everybody else.”

You narrow your eyes. “So why are you choosing me?”

She nods toward your still-clenched fist.

“No reason,” she says. “Now come on.” She stands and begins walking away.

If you’re fine with her making the decisions, go to section 808.

If you lie back down on the bench, go to section 815.

Your third afternoon at Community House, Irene—the redhead—invites you to come along with everybody to a movie.

In your mind you see a dark room full of people all sitting still, watching and listening. Your arms tighten up, and then you start shaking all over.

After a minute Irene says that maybe you should just stay here today.

If you insist on joining the outing, go to section 815.

If you’re fine with Irene making the decisions, go to section 822.

A couple evenings later you and a few others are in the living room watching TV. When the show ends, Irene gets up and turns off the set. Nobody objects.

“I’m going to read awhile,” she says. She crosses the room toward an armchair, pausing at the stereo to start up a CD.

The drums kick things off, and then comes the bass. A bottleneck guitar eases into some Delta blues.

You get shaky, and stand to leave.

“Wait a minute,” she tells you, looking concerned. She turns off the CD. She glances around the room at the others. “I think I need some tea. Come on.”

You follow her to the unoccupied kitchen. She runs water into the kettle. Not looking at you, she says, “Music. It’s a problem?”

You don’t feel entirely steady, so you slide into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table.

She lights a burner and sets down the kettle. “Especially guitar.”

You let out the breath you’ve apparently been holding. “I used to play.”

She pulls out the adjacent chair and sits. “And then your hands got messed up.”

You nod. Though you don’t know whether she’s watching, because you’re staring at your lap, where your hands are holding each other. As well as they can.

You’ve had this conversation enough times, back when you were in the hospital, to know that next she’ll ask how that makes you feel. And then you’ll be having a Therapeutic Dialogue.

You wait, but for several seconds she doesn’t speak.

“That,” she finally says, “truly sucks.”

A minute later the kettle starts whistling, and she stands. You hear her open a cabinet.

“Damn. We’re out of green. Chamomile okay?”

If you wait silently for your tea and then carefully pick it up with your right hand, go to section 831.

If you look up and say, “Sure. Thanks,” go to section 845.

A week later there’s a trip to an art gallery.

You go along.

If, when you’re standing in a crowded room where everybody is attentively staring at the same big painting, your heart starts hammering and you have to leave, go to section 859.

If you don’t leave, go to section 870.

You’ve been at Community House for three months now. Sometimes you help Irene or the other staff with grocery shopping. Often with cooking. Lately you’ve been able to sit still while CDs play, and a few nights ago you realized that your right hand was fingerpicking along with an old Ry Cooder track. (Though at that realization you did have to leave the room, and for a couple of hours it felt like all the fingers you don’t have anymore were spasming in boiling water.)