The Receiver

1 9 - D A U G H T E R

We land the pod in the center of what once Coney Island. The sandy beach has disappeared under dark water, the metal of the rides rusted red. Some of the letters on the WONDER WHEEL sign on the Ferris wheel have either fallen off or are covered in vines because it now reads NDR HEL.

The three of us hop out of the pod and onto the vine-choked concrete, Iris instinctively checking the liquid bandage dried and stretched like a kind of tape over the shaved part of her head. I protested her coming with us, but she insisted after Frank's vital tests deemed her well enough for the trip.

Zander wears one of Dad's old boilersuits, the ugly faded brown fabric a lightened version of his skin. No one besides a Hesler has ever worn one of those suits, but we couldn't exactly have him strutting around in designer threads. Too conspicuous. But there's no covering up the jewels in his face that sparkle even in the hazy light. I wouldn't be surprised if he was tackled to the ground by some bottomfeeder with a pair of needle nose pliers ready to scoop them out like diamonds from the earth.

He says something, his words muffled behind his mask.

I motion for him to take it off, but he refuses.

"What is that smell?" he enunciates.

"Eau de mildew," Iris quips. "Downcity's signature scent."

"You'll get used to it," I lie.

The way the finger-like weeds have crept down from the sides of buildings onto the ground, it's impossible to tell where the sand ends and the boardwalk begins. I remember coming here when I was little, too young for the memories to be any more than wisps of smoke. Even then, most of the rides were shut down, but the Ferris wheel was the last to go. While Dad took Iris to get a dirty water hotdog, Mom took me up and it was magical. I'd never been that high before. They'd rarely let us venture too far from the apartment, always making sure we were never out past dark. But that night we stayed out well after the sun set. I can still close my eyes and see the light flickering on the water, orange and gold like coins rolling across its surface. That was before Mom got sick. When she was still strong and flame-haired and Iris and I thought parents lived forever.

The Ferris wheel stands in the same place, but its surroundings have changed. No more hordes of screeching children zooming past, sugary treats in hand. No more light-up signs and attractions. Here, there are no laserscreens. No walls with soundpores. No watching eyes. No listening ears.

"So what?" Iris says under her breath. "He's on our side now? We're supposed to believe he's gone from being the heartless mastermind behind The Trials and beating the shit out of bottomfeeders for fun to helping us?"

"I think 'mastermind' is a little generous," I say.

"I'm serious, Rho."

"People can change," I say, looking her in the eye so she knows I'm serious too. "And I'm willing to hear him out. He could help us really change things."

"Could," she repeats, glancing back at a distracted Zander. "That doesn't mean he will."

The three of us enter the corroded gates of Luna Park, walk past a dozen dilapidated rides and stop at the half-dismantled carousel. Only four horses are left among the cracked mirrors and busted lightbulbs. Iris and I drop, cross-legged, onto the slatted wooden floor where it's not rotted through, looking up at Zander who still stands, hesitant to sit.

"What were you expecting?" Iris asks.

He looks around, then slowly lowers himself to the floor of the carousel.