Kriegspiel [Sequel to The Turing Test]

3. Never Alone

"Ronnie."

My eyes fly open. I flick them as far as I can from side to side without moving a muscle, forcing my breaths to stay shallow and silent.

I'm not here, I pray to myself, squeezing my eyes shut. If I'm not here, he can't find me.

"Ronnie!"

Go away. Please.

"Let me help you."

I grab my own arms, digging my fingers in hard enough to leave dents long after I let go. If it really is Sven, he doesn't want to help. A few months ago, he may have been able to manipulate me, but I know better now. I no longer exist to serve him.

Wake up. I have to wake up. I clench my fists, imagining the pain I should feel. The light from above assaults me, sending stabbing pains straight to my temples.

"Come home, Ronnie."

"Never!" I finally shout, half hoping that the noise will rouse me in the real world.

"Now is not the time to be stubborn, Ronnie," the voice warns, rumbling like thunder from overhead. "For the sake of your people. Come home."

I back away, but I only take two steps before I realize that I don't know which direction I'm trying to run from.

"No," I cry at the sky.

The voice doesn't acknowledge my refusal, only asks another question.

"Where are you?"

* * *

This time, when I wake, I keep my eyes shut tight and let the raindrops pepper their lids from above. I concentrate on my breaths, letting them even out, imagining the vapor that must be hanging in the air over my face. When I finally sit up, my soaked jeans pull at my legs, chafing and making them feel several pounds heavier. Everything clings to my body like cold, clammy hands.

There's an odd comfort in knowing that everything I feel is fake. That even as I shiver and pull my arms further inside the sleeves of my jacket, even as the rain soaks through my hood, I won't get sick. That the desperate yearning to eat means nothing. That I can survive indefinitely on nothing, no matter how badly I feel.

I suppose it's the comfort of immortality.

It makes the damp chill of early spring rain bearable. It makes the pain in my fingers mean nothing. It makes the stench of the dumpster I've taken up residence behind just another scent among many.

It's easier to bear the unpleasant things when I know I don't really feel them.

With a resounding crash, the dumpster starts to move. I huddle deeper into my jacket, pulling the hood as far down my face as I can. I stare at the puddles between my feet, watching the rain speckle them with ripples like tiny skipping stones. From the corner of my eye, I watch as the garbage haulers ignore me, like I'm even lower than the refuse spilling into the back of their truck from the upside-down dumpster. I relax as the dumpster clangs back into place, hiding me from the world once again.

The rain pelts me as I hunch over, and I listen to its steady beat on my hood, magnified from the inside. The bright light of the dream lingers, but all I can see is Davis. All I hear is him shouting at me.

"You can't order me around, Ronnie!"

But I did anyway. I yelled right back at him, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat—but that doesn't mean I can just banish him from my memory. He's stood by me through everything. He was my friend even when Sven dumped him for me. He helped me through Sven's infidelity without so much as an "I told you so," even though he more than earned the right. He refused to blame me for getting him imprisoned in Sven's basement, or for turning him into a fugitive.