Ted Kosmatka - The Games

For Silas, anything that cost more than an average man earns in six months didn’t just smack of pretension, it rang of it. It veritably gonged. But the watch rivaled the engineering tolerances of biological systems; it ran perfectly and would continue to do so, without a battery, long after time ceased to be a matter of his concern. He was genuinely interested by such efficiency, and this provided the thin veneer of justification that he required.

“Nice watch,” she said.

He cringed. That’s it, I’m selling it .

“What are you going to do in the years the contest isn’t held in the continental United States?” she asked. She had the dress around the curve of her hips now, pulling it up.

His confusion showed.

“You can’t very well truck the contestant to Europe,” she said. “You’ll have to fly then.”

“Oh, the event is always held in the U.S.”

“Really,” she said, as if she’d never thought about it before. “I suppose they have been. How did you get the other countries to agree to that?”

“Last time’s winner gets home-court advantage. It was how the rules were written up at the beginning, and since we’ve never lost, we’re home court.”

“I bet the other countries are sorry they signed up for that.”

“I’m very certain they are. It pumps a lot of money into the local economy, not to mention American bioengineering companies.”

When they finished dressing, they carried the luggage to the car. Two small suitcases apiece.

“I think you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who knows how to pack light,” he said, as he wedged the final bag under the hatch.

“Look at this thing,” she said, gesturing to the dark blue vehicle. “I didn’t want to spend three hundred miles with luggage banging against my kidneys. There’s only so much room in this car, and I decided I’d use my share for breathing, not extra underwear.”

“So you’re leaving your underwear behind, eh? Talk like that might get you a promotion.”

“Works every time.”

Four minutes later, they were merging onto empty highway and the sun was bleeding up from the east, coloring the traffic in reds and shadows. The road felt good beneath him, as it always seemed to at the start of a road trip. But they had to make one quick stop before they were free.

When they arrived at the compound, Silas saw James Mitchell standing in the back lot, trying to assemble the convoy. Silas pulled slowly alongside the man. In Silas’s opinion, “inconspicuous” was hardly the word that jumped to mind when he looked toward the line of trucks and vans.

“Having problems?”

“No more than usual,” James answered, appearing not at all surprised to see them. “Most of these egghead types wouldn’t have lasted two days in the service. Nobody around here seems to know how to keep a schedule.”

“That’s what you’re for, James.”

Silas looked around at the chaos. The big white rig sat idling at the front of the loose collection of vehicles. It was pathetic.

“You seem to be taking this rather well,” Silas said. He would have expected James to be throwing a fit by now with the way things were shaping up.

“I was counting on it.”

Silas raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, our special traveler is already well down the road. Left last night, in fact. This big cluster-fuck is a decoy.” James gave him a wink. “Just in case.”

“Do they know that?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, your secret is safe with me, but you won’t mind if I don’t stick around here to watch the proceedings.”

James smiled and waved him on, but as Silas began to pull forward, James seemed to change his mind and motioned for them to stop. Jogging up to the car, he tossed a video cube into Silas’s lap.

“Just so we can get ahold of you,” he said.

Silas picked up the small, square video communication device. “Do you think you’ll need to?”

“You’d better hope not.”

THE OPEN road called. Silas answered with a stomp of his right foot that sat Vidonia back in her seat. He knew it was juvenile, but he couldn’t stop himself. Anyway, he didn’t actually break the speed limit; he just liked seeing how quickly he could get there. He let up on the gas pedal when Vidonia’s grip on his knee became painful. He found that her grip eased in direct proportion to the angle of his tachometer needle.

“Boys and their cars,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled the window all the way down and laid his arm along the spine of the door. It was one hell of a morning. The sun rose high and hot into cloudless sky, and by noon they’d traded the cloying humidity of California for the dry heat of the high desert. Silas turned the air-conditioning off. The wind was enough, and besides, Silas liked the way it made Vidonia’s hair dance like a living thing, like she was some ironic, beautiful Medusa.

“This heat reminds me of home,” she said. “Except without palm trees.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Both. But home had beaches going for it.”

“Now I’m picturing you in a bathing suit.”

“You’re assuming I wear one.”

“Now, there’s a new image in my head.”

“That was my intent.”

“I could get used to this.”

“To what?”

“To you. Being here.”

“You haven’t even eaten my cooking yet.”

“You cook, too?”

“Seafood is my specialty.”

“So you’re that rare woman I’ve heard legend of. A woman who can both perform a Southern blot analysis and grill up a grouper?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she said.

“How did I get so lucky?”

She was quiet for a long while, and Silas suspected that when she spoke, it would be something significant. Ten more minutes passed in silence, and he knew it would be something bad.

Finally, in a soft voice that almost drowned in the wind, she said, “There’s someone back home. His name is John.”

“That’s odd,” he said, keeping his voice even. “That’s just what I’d figured his name would be. Or something like it. Jim, maybe, or Jake. Some old name, something common. I’m usually wrong on hunches, though. Funny, this is a time I’d be right.” He’d known since the beach, when he’d asked her if she was married. The answer had been no, but he’d sensed there was something more she’d almost said.

She looked out into the desert. He almost spoke but stopped himself with the question on the tip of his tongue. He wouldn’t let her off the hook. What she’d say without him asking would be more important than the response to any question. Questions—no matter how carefully worded—always carry their own baggage of expectation, an unspoken optimal response that the asked person is aware of. The answer then becomes about proximity to that response. How close are you willing to come?

“He’s different from you.”

That was something, at least. “How are we different?” He kept his eyes on the road.

“The important ways.”

He looked at her then, and her hair was dancing, reaching into the wind.

“I should tell you we live together … or that we … lived together before I came here.”

“You’re close?”

“Close, sure. He slept right on the other side of the bed most nights. Other nights, the couch. Or wherever.”

“The couch. I guess he is different from me.”

“I told you.” She was still looking out into the desert and didn’t offer more, didn’t make any promises. John , he thought. Just an old, common name. Old, common-issue. Let it be. Let it be . He forced himself not to ask more.

PHOENIX. A place of cactus and rock and mountains and heat.

Phoenix is a place without history. It is new and air-conditioned. It defies the desert. On the side of the highway, as decoration, colored pebbles lie arranged in intricate Indian designs, pastels and browns and pinks, alternately anthropomorphic or zooplastic—strange totems and zigzags—all of it sloping upward and away from the road, an artistic canvas that five thousand pairs of eyes might see every day. And it goes on for miles, glass buildings and blue skies and mountains looming in the background.