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Chapter 10

We stand far enough from Emerson's house so that no one might see us, but also so that we can still keep an eye on his house just in case there are any sudden changes and we have to redirect the plan. It seems like hours go by before Emerson emerges from the threshold and waves at what would appear as empty space to onlookers. If anyone were to spot him, he'd look utterly insane. Then again, we must all look a bit crazy, shuffling from our crouch behind bushes and appearing even more suspicious than is necessary. We wouldn't want to draw any attention, but I don't suppose there is a better way to go about wandering the neighborhood with a girl who has come back from the dead. 

"Hurry," I tell Del and she scurries ahead of me across the lawns of neighboring homes. Drey is quick on my heels and soon we all pile into the living room of Unit 125. Emerson shuts the door behind us, after just a single moment of hesitation and locks it. It is like a silent act of assurance. Once that door is shut, there is no going back. I feel his heart stumble.

We all stare at one another for what seems like ages. I take in the sight of Emerson, somehow more disheveled than Delilah now; his mouth is turned down at the corners and he seems to have aged more in the past hour or so than he has in the entire time I have known him, which is since as long ago as I can remember.

Del takes two small steps forward, like a child scared to approach their own parent after an argument. But this hadn't been an argument. She was just frightened of everything that was to come and rightfully so. No one knew what was meant of her reappearance. It had never happened in the entire century that the Unity of Powers has been in control. Someone coming back from Collection? Completely unheard of, but here she is, standing in Emerson's living room, shaking with fear of being discovered even though the UP are the people who put her through all of it in the first place. They knew she was here, so her fear did not lie with them finding her. It rested in the thought of the society knowing that someone had returned and she knew damn well it would be no quiet event. There would be stares wherever she went and people pointing and whispering and Del would never be able to fall back into the routine of Delilah Tumesdus, the girl who worried her best friend was going to disappear and secretly, but not so secretly was in love with her other best friend.

Her hands drift into Emerson's and she pulls him gently toward the stairs that lead to the basement. Drey and I stand back to watch them descend before following, our feet quick over the steps.

"She acts so strangely now," Drey whispers in my ear when we have reached the bottom.

I roll my eyes, but he doesn't see it. "What do you expect?" I say instead, proving my point.

The stairs are pressed against the wall and to the right is Emerson's room. A bed is set against the far wall and a dresser is across from it under the stair case. A television is on top of its own table at the foot of his bed which is neatly made with a handmade quilt atop the comforter. Emerson takes the quilt and piles it on the floor where he is making what resembles a nest, except instead of sticks and leaves, it is consisting of blankets.

"I can sleep here until we figure out what's gonna go down," he says.

Del stares at him, confused. "No." The word slips too quickly.

"You're not sleeping on the floor, Del."

"I know..." she trails off, but the idea was understood by us all. She stands awkwardly with her arms curled around herself and her feet crossed at the ankles. Before the silence can grow into another death trap, Del picks the quilt off of the floor and wraps it around herself. Emerson flushes and shoots lasers through the floor with his eyes and the whole room falls victim to an awkward silence again.

I'm not sure when it began, this silence. Suddenly it's like all the words in the universe do not belong to us and all the things we should say to fill this void, we cannot because our mouths do not move and our voices cannot make any sound other than the occasional wheeze. Our hearts fill the space instead, softly thrumming offbeat with each other, our eyes sweeping over each other, but never really connecting with the person we look at. We avoid each other's gazes the way we have been avoiding the one question we all want to desperately know; what happened to her?