Hugh Howey: Shift

Troy glanced at the view and felt there was something he was supposed to know, something he kept forgetting. He awoke each morning with familiar shapes at the edges of his vision, could feel memories nearby, but by the time breakfast came, they were already fading. By dinner, they were lost. It left Troy with a sadness, a cold sensation, and a feeling like a hollow stomach — different from hunger — like rainy days as a child when he didn’t know how to fill his time.

The gentleman across from him slid over a little and cleared his throat. ‘Things going okay?’ he asked.

He reminded Troy of someone. Blotchy skin hung slightly loose around his weathered face. He had a drooping neck, an unsightly pinch of flesh hanging from his Adam’s apple.

‘Things?’ Troy repeated. He returned the smile.

‘Anything, I suppose. Just checking in. I go by Hal.’ The gentleman lifted his glass. Troy did the same. It was as good as a handshake.

‘Troy,’ he said. He supposed to some people it still mattered what they called themselves.

Hal took a long pull from his glass. His neck bobbed, the gulp loud. Self-conscious, Troy took a small sip and worked on the last of his beans and turkey.

‘I’ve noticed some people sit facing it and some sit with their backs to it.’ Hal jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Troy looked up at the screen. He chewed his food, didn’t say anything.

‘I reckon those who sit and watch, they’re trying to remember something,’ Hal said.

Troy swallowed and forced himself to shrug.

‘And those of us who don’t want to watch,’ Hal continued. ‘I figure we’re trying our best to forget.’

Troy knew they shouldn’t be having this conversation, but now it had begun, and he wanted to see where it would lead.

‘It’s the bad stuff,’ Hal said, staring off towards the lifts. ‘Have you noticed that? It’s just the bad stuff that slips away. All the unimportant things, we remember well.’

Troy didn’t say anything. He jabbed his beans, even though he didn’t plan on eating them.

‘It makes you wonder, don’t it? Why we all feel so rotten inside?’

Hal finished up his food, nodded a wordless goodbye and got up to leave. Troy was left alone. He found himself staring at the screen, a dull ache inside that he couldn’t name. It was the time of evening just before the hills disappeared, before they darkened and faded into the cloud-filled sky.

DONALD WAS GLAD he had decided to walk to his meeting with the Senator. The rain from the week before had finally let up, and the traffic in Dupont Circle was at a crawl. Heading up Connecticut and leaning into a stiffening breeze, Donald wondered why the meeting had been moved to Kramerbooks of all places. There were a dozen superior coffee houses much closer to the office.

He crossed a side street and hurried up the short flight of stone steps to the bookshop. The front door to Kramer’s was one of those ancient wooden affairs older establishments hung like a boast, a testament to their endurance. Hinges squeaked and actual bells jangled overhead as he pushed open the door, and a young woman straightening books on a centre table of bestsellers glanced up and smiled hello.

The cafe, Donald saw, was packed with men and women in business suits sipping from white porcelain cups. There was no sign of the Senator. Donald started to check his phone, see if he was too early, when a Secret Service agent caught his eye.

The agent stood broad-shouldered at the end of an aisle of books in the small corner of Kramer’s that acted as the cafe’s bookshop. Donald laughed at how conspicuously hidden the man was: the earpiece, the bulge by his ribs, the sunglasses indoors. Donald headed the agent’s way, the wooden boards underfoot groaning with age.

The agent’s gaze shifted his way, but it was hard to tell if he was looking at Donald or towards the front door.

‘I’m here to see Senator Thurman,’ Donald said, his voice cracking a little. ‘I have an appointment.’

The agent turned his head to the side. Donald followed the gesture and peered down an aisle of books to see Thurman browsing through the stacks at the far end.

‘Ah. Thanks.’ He stepped between the towering shelves of old books, the light dimming and the smell of coffee replaced with the tang of mildew mixed with leather.

‘What do you think of this one?’

Senator Thurman held out a book as Donald approached. No greeting, just the question.

Donald checked the title embossed in gold on the thick leather cover. ‘Never heard of it,’ he admitted.

Senator Thurman laughed. ‘Of course not. It’s over a hundred years old — and it’s French. I mean, what do you think of the binding ?’ He handed Donald the book.

Donald was surprised by how heavy the volume was. He cracked it open and flipped through a few pages. It felt like a law book, had that same dense heft, but he could see by the white space between lines of dialogue that it was a novel. As he turned a few pages, he admired how thin the individual sheets were. Where the pages met at the spine, they had been stitched together with tiny ropes of blue and gold thread. He had friends who still swore by physical books — not for decoration, but to actually read. Studying the one in his hand, Donald could understand their nostalgic affection.

‘The binding looks great,’ he said, brushing it with the pads of his fingers. ‘It’s a beautiful book.’ He handed the novel back to the Senator. ‘Is this how you shop for a good read? You mostly go by the cover?’

Thurman tucked the book under his arm and pulled another from the shelf. ‘It’s just a sample for another project I’m working on.’ He turned and narrowed his eyes at Donald. It was an uncomfortable gaze. He felt like prey.

‘How’s your sister doing?’ he asked.

The question caught Donald off guard. A lump formed in his throat at the mention of her.

‘Charlotte? She’s… she’s fine, I guess. She redeployed. I’m sure you heard.’

‘I did.’ Thurman slotted the book in his hand back into a gap and weighed the one Donald had appraised. ‘I was proud of her for re-upping. She does her country proud.’

Donald thought about what it cost a family to do a country proud.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I mean, I know my parents were really looking forward to having her home, but she was having trouble adjusting to the pace back here. It… I don’t think she’ll be able to really relax until the war’s over. You know?’

‘I do. And she may not find peace even then.’

That wasn’t what Donald wanted to hear. He watched the Senator trace his finger down an ornate spine adorned with ridges, bumps and recessed lettering. The old man’s eyes seemed to focus beyond the rows of books.

‘I can drop her a line if you want. Sometimes a soldier just needs to hear that it’s okay to see someone.’

‘If you mean a shrink, she won’t do it.’ Donald recalled the changes in his sister around the time of her sessions. ‘We already tried.’

Thurman’s lips pursed into a thin, wrinkled line, his worry revealing hidden signs of age. ‘I’ll talk to her. I’m familiar enough with the hubris of youth, believe me. I used to have the same attitude when I was younger. I thought I didn’t need any help, that I could do everything on my own.’ He turned to face Donald. ‘The profession’s come a long way. They have pills now that can help her with the battle fatigue.’

Donald shook his head. ‘No. She was on those for a while. They made her too forgetful. And they caused a…’ He hesitated, didn’t want to talk about it. ‘… a tic .’