Cycling to Asylum

By Su J. Sokol

In a near-future New York subject to an increasingly hostile government, Laek, a non-conformist history teacher, and Janie, a community lawyer, are trying to live good and useful lives. After Laek is badly injured in a brutal confrontation with the police, they are forced to leave their home and loved ones behind, fleeing across the border by bi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Su J. Sokol
• Release date: Dec 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781928049043

Su J. Sokol

Su J Sokol is a social rights advocate, a freelance editor, and a writer of speculative, liminal, and interstitial fiction. A former legal services lawyer from New York City, xe now makes Montréal xyr home. Sokol is the author of three novels: Cycling to Asylum, which was long-listed for the Sunburst Award for Excellence in Canadian Literature of the Fantastic and has been optioned for development into a feature-length film, Run J Run (2019), and Zee (2020). Sokol's short fiction has appeared or is upcoming in various magazines and anthologies including in The Future Fire, Spark: A Creative Anthology, Glittership: an LGBTQ Science Fiction and Fantasy Podcast, After the Orange: Ruin and Recovery (B Cubed Press), and Amazing Stories. When xe is not writing, battling slumlords, bringing evil bureaucracies to their knees, and smashing borders, Sokol curates and participates in readings and literary events in Canada and abroad.

Book preview

Book One: Pedaling

When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race.

H.G. Wells

ONE

Laek

I’m counting American flags. Eleven regular-sized, five minis, three hanging sideways, fascist-style. A giant one suspended from a thick metal pole in front of the bank. And the two hanging from either side of the police car just ahead. I stop counting. Quickly switch lanes. Keep pedaling, Laek. Just keep pedaling.

I continue north on Fourth Avenue. There’s no need to check my screen or project a holo map. I know where I am. I know what time it is. My body can feel these things. So I sense that I’m not going exactly north, but more northeast. The convention is to say north, though, because of how the grid runs in this corner of Brooklyn.

My bike is moving fast. Slicing through the heat. Sweat streams down my shirtless back and under my arms. I don’t mind the sweat, the heat, and besides, it’s only 91 degrees. Not too bad for 6:58 a.m. on a late March morning. A heavy truck rattles by. I feel a whoosh of hot air as it whizzes past me, inches from my left elbow. I hold my ground. A car comes up on me from behind. Sounds its horn. Does it think I don’t know it’s there? That I can’t feel its heat on my bare neck? My eyes dart between the traffic on my left and the double-parked cars on my right, alert for opening doors. I’ve only been doored once, the slight asymmetry of my handlebars a constant reminder.

The sour stench of garbage combines with the delicious aroma of fresh muffins. Owners of local diners and bodegas are neutralizing alarms, unlocking gates and resetting their holo-boards. Homeless people still asleep are pushed away. Some with kicks and shouts. Some with phaser rods. A rod is raised. I slow, body taut, ready to intervene. It’s lowered. I move on.

I fill my lungs with the early morning air. Reach my arms above my head. The wheels of my bicycle vibrate on the warm pavement and, like a tuning fork, I respond with a sure, steady hum deep inside me. I stretch my gaze west, towards the piece of sky that’s visible beyond the urban landscape. There’s a greenish-brown stain around the edges, but it’s still beautiful, still fills my heart with the hope I always feel looking at the morning sky. Like the City’s beginning again. Like something good could happen.

At Ninth Street, I turn left towards the Gowanus. Once in Red Hook, cut off by the expressway, the walls of the neighborhood close in around me. I coast to a stop in front of my school. Dismount. We’ve started a new unit in ninth grade history: Citizenship, Patriotism, and the Social Contract. Should I mention the new anti-immigrant laws? Should I mention flags?

I slip on my shirt. Bound up the broad concrete stairs with my bike. Inside, I notice a new security guard. I hesitate. Then give her my best smile. She doesn’t ask for my wrist to scan my Uni. Relieved, I dig my hands deep into my pockets. Disappear into the distortion field of the elliptical security booth. I hold my breath as currents of metallic, tangerine air surround me. 

Once I’m through security, I exhale slowly. Walk down the hallway towards the teachers’ lounge. I roll my bike beside me, the sweat drying under my shirt.

In the classroom, I get to work activating new holographic images. A security gate appears across the door. Stern-faced officers blink into existence. I add teeth-baring dogs. They snap at the air, barely restrained by their uniformed handlers. Nearby, I place other holos. Unified National Identity data being imbedded in wrist chips. Oaths being sworn. People marching. At the back corners of the room, adults and children of various races and nationalities, their possessions on their backs, wait patiently. The line of refugees disappears into the horizon. At the last minute, I add American flags of all types and sizes, waving disjointedly.

My ninth graders begin to file in. Some seem excited, their heads whipping around. Others are looking down and clutching their school screens tightly. I begin class, hoping I haven’t overdone it. Even after turning the lesson into a game, with the apples I’ve brought for prizes, a few of my students still sit in their seats, fidgety and tight-lipped.

A few minutes before the end of the period, when I’ve given out apples to most of the kids in my class, I smile at Sasha and ask, Who’s hungry?

I am, Sasha answers timidly.

But he hasn’t even answered one question! Marcus complains.

"He’s hungry, Inez says. You already had an apple on top of your big-assed breakfast."

Before Marcus has a chance to retaliate, I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze.

It’s a good question the two of you raise. What’s more important in deciding who gets an apple—whether you’re hungry or whether you answered the question right?

Hands dart into the air and I watch the fight resolve into an intellectual debate.

After a few minutes of discussion, I say: OK, a good start. I want you all to think more about it while you’re doing the homework assignment I’ve beamed to your screens.

I toss an apple to each student who hasn’t received one yet, starting with Sasha.

You have enough for everyone? Marcus asks, surprised.

Of course I do. I love you guys too much to short you on apples.

At lunchtime, I head over to the teachers’ lounge.

There’s coffee, Erin says, pushing dark bangs from her eyes as she studies her screen.

Think I’ll pass. I look around the teachers’ lounge. You seen Philip?

I saw him earlier, why?

He’s meeting with his ex tonight. Still trying to convince her to take him back.

Dana will never take him back.

Yeah. That’s why I want to talk to him.

He’ll only get mad at you, Laek.

I don’t want to see him hurt again.

You can’t keep him from getting hurt.

She takes a gulp of coffee. Grimaces. Returns to studying her screen.

Is that sour look from the coffee or what you’re reading? I ask.

They’ve changed the English Comp exams again. Do they want these kids to fail?

I bend over her chair. Talk about a moving target. Want to raise it at the union meeting?

Maybe. You’re lucky you teach history. At least the past isn’t subject to change.

Guess you never heard of revisionism.

OK, you have a point.

Seriously, Erin, you know how to teach English. You don’t have to jump every time the current admin wants to try out the latest regressive educational theory.

And you need to be more careful, teaching a subject that’s so politically sensitive. We’re scrutinized enough as it is.

I’m teaching the required curriculum, I tell her.

I heard that for the citizenship unit, you were talking about civil disobedience.

They asked me about it. Wanted me to take them to a demo. The parents of a student apparently saw me at one. I had to explain it was too dangerous.

They also said you told them that borders aren’t real.

Where are you getting this? I ask her.

Don’t worry about it. The students think you’re hyper, as they put it.

Well, it’s not what I meant, exactly. You know there are kids in my class who are undocumented. I wanted them to know they’re safe in our school. And that having papers and having human rights are two different things.

But borders exist, she insists.

Ever think about borders when you were a kid? I did—a lot. Maybe because of how much my mom and I had to move around. When we crossed into a new state, I’d stare at the road. Try to find the thick black line I saw on the map.

Erin smiles but doesn’t say anything.

Yeah, someone eventually explained that the lines on the map weren’t there in real life. Not between states and not between countries, either. It got me wondering. If borders are imaginary lines, why can’t people just step over them?

But you know the answer to that, Laek. You’re an adult now. She says this like my transformation into adulthood happened just yesterday. As though I wasn’t a man of thirty-two, only one year younger than her.

It’s not about being grown-up. I still wonder about this. And about what kind of world we’d have if that were allowed.

"But in the meantime, we need to teach about the world as it really is," Erin says.

A bitter duty, sometimes.

* * *

Grabbing my bike at the end of the day, I spot Philip on his way out.

Hey, when are you going over to Dana’s? You have time to grab a beer?

Yeah, I’m not supposed to pick up Kyla before six. Dana needs me to take Kyla to daycare tomorrow. Do you think she might ask me to stay for dinner?

I don’t know. Did she say anything?

No. Maybe I should bring a bottle of wine, just in case.

That’s a strategy, I guess. Any other ideas on how to approach things?

Well, I was thinking about getting down on my knees and begging. But that hasn’t worked especially well in the past.

Ah, Philip.

Don’t give me those sad puppy eyes, Laek. I was only kidding. Mostly.

Now here’s an idea. You can find someone who actually appreciates you.

She’s the mother of my child. How easily could you give up Janie?

If it were best for her …

You don’t understand. How could you? Janie would never leave you.

Maybe not. But there could still be a reason to give Janie up. Reasons related to her safety. And the safety of our kids. Philip doesn’t know why I’ve needed to think about this. And burdening him with that information won’t make him feel better. Instead, I try to find some words for him. But there are no words, because beneath it all he’s right. Just imagining a life without Janie makes me ache inside. So I wrap my arms around my best friend instead. He hugs me back, then pushes me away awkwardly. We’d better hurry.

It’s almost time for the first of the three sequenced ultrasound alarms. At least judging by the way the guards are hurrying everyone through. I’ve been on school property only once when the first alarm went off. The bursts of sonic sound are only supposed to bother kids and teenagers. I still ended up with a pretty bad headache. I’ve never been on school property for the third alarm. It’s at a high enough decibel level to be classified as a sonic weapon.

Philip’s on foot so I walk my bike. We take a shortcut through the Red Hook Projects. Entering them is like being swallowed up by some beast. The jutting buildings like jagged teeth around a big hungry mouth. I stop at a sign: Welcome to Red Hook Houses West—Another Successful P2 Partnership! Public-private partnership, sure. Half the windows are boarded up. Playgrounds looking like battlegrounds. I stop reading signs. Read graffiti instead. Forced implants = slavery. And below that, in thick red paint, Fuck the fazer. I wave to a few students before cutting north. We emerge two blocks from our favorite local pub, The Look and Hook.

We each order a Brooklyn Brown. One is enough for me. I want a clear head for the union meeting. Philip orders a second round. I pour half of mine into his glass while he’s in the men’s room. When it’s time to go, I wish him luck with Dana and head to the union meeting.

In downtown Brooklyn, I tense up. Holo-ads, loud and lurid, assault my senses. I ride, head down, until the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge. Standing on my pedals, I glance over my left shoulder, take a deep breath and go, crossing four lanes of busy traffic to arrive at the narrow, curved path in the middle of the bridge. A chorus of horns and a heartbeat later, I’m on.

The bridge is a transfer point between two realities. I move away from the bustle of downtown Brooklyn—poor, ordinary, and mostly non-white—towards an island of wonders and riches held by a very few. Below me, the newest zip-and-soar yachts mix with older ferries and sailboats. Above, mini-balloons hover and swoop, a colorful counterpoint to the security drones. Yet here in-between, on the Brooklyn Bridge bike path, time is frozen. Everything still seems possible. I reach the midway mark, now finished with the long but modest climb. I roll with a crowd of cyclists past the spiderweb cables. I’ve passed the point of no return.

In Manhattan, I glance out at the bubble dome being built around the business district. Then imagine the swarms of heavily armed cops and private security surrounding the construction. Gliding down the ramp off the bridge, I veer right, happy to be going north instead. I slip into the uptown traffic. Quickly pass the courts and then Chinatown. Zigzagging around the cars, it’s not long before I’m at East Fourteenth Street trying to catch a view of Union Square Park, a place steeped in fascinating labor movement history. I hope this might inspire us tonight. I take a left onto Broadway. Look for somewhere to lock up my bike.

There’s an air of excitement, like before a good fight. It takes twenty-five minutes to make my way to Erin with all the people who stop me to talk. The eleven officers enter the hall together. A hush settles over the packed assembly and the two-way holo-chatter goes silent. I listen to the president speak. It’s mostly leadership spin. I zone out until a teacher from Queens stands up to oppose legislation that would lower the age to twelve for mandatory iris scanning.

Requiring this at sixteen is bad enough. Can’t they have some time to be kids before their personal info is spread all over the national security database?

I listen to her words. Childhood memories try to creep into my head. It’s difficult to breathe. I push myself to my feet, applauding to hide my discomfort.

Erin’s watching me with concern. I smile. I’m just a little tired, I tell her.

Nightmares again? she asks.

I shrug instead of answering.

Close your eyes for a few minutes. I’ll let you know when we get to the important part.

I shake my head but lean back anyway. The presentation consists of glossed-over proposals for givebacks. I try to listen but despite myself, I feel my eyelids close. Soon I’m walking the midwestern drylands. The odor of dust and ozone is suffocating. A sudden rainstorm. Water pouring down, filling my mouth and nostrils. Then it’s not a rainstorm because I’m inside and strapped down to a board. I can’t breathe. I jerk myself up and cough.

Erin’s hand is on my shoulder. I think you might be getting sick, she says.

I’m OK. I try to shake it off. The discussion has moved to proposals for privatizing services for special-needs students. Virtual classrooms. AI mentoring models. I drift off again.

I wake to Erin telling me that they’ve beamed the proposals. I begin to read. Halfway through I see it, buried between the no strike clause and the duty to report. I grab Erin’s arm. Show her the section. While she reads, I beam a message to our coalition. Confusion moves like a wave across the room. Zion, the delegate from the Music and Arts School in Boerum Hill, asks, Does this mean what I think? They can’t expect us to turn our students in to Immigration.

Some chapter leaders stand, try to ask questions. They’re cut off. Discussion of this item has been reserved for the legal subcommittee. We’re told that a newer version of the text will be beamed for next meeting. I look down at my screen. The proposals have been deleted at source.

After the meeting is over, our coalition briefly discusses how to respond, but everyone’s exhausted. It’s decided that a plan of action is premature before the subcommittee report. We disperse, but I still feel worked up. I lean against the building. Stare off at Union Square. There’s some commotion. I walk to the corner of Fourteenth. Cross the street. A homeless woman is being forcibly removed from the park by two cops. I step out from the darkness, am seen by them. The grip on her arm loosens. I decide it’s time to go home.

I find my bike where I parked it. Unlock it from the pole. Enter the codes to release the handlebars and brakes. I stow my stuff, get on and start riding down Broadway. I’m thinking about the meeting. About possible organizing strategies. Half a dozen blocks from my starting point, I wait at a red light. It turns green. A car arrives on my left. I roll into the intersection just as the driver turns right—directly into me!

Swerving, braking, and skidding, I stand up on my pedals and, feeling the heat of the car just inches from me, I smack the hood hard with the palm of my left hand. It screeches to a stop. I clear the intersection. As soon as I’m across, the driver pushes down on the pedal. The car jerks forward, disappearing down the block. I shake my head. Continue on my way. Not two blocks later, a gunmetal grey car—one of those models resembling an armored box—cuts me off and stops, blocking my path. The driver opens his passenger window. I lean over my handlebars.

Can I help you? I ask, trying to control my frustration. Behind me, horns are blaring as drivers steer around us. The man in the gunmetal car ignores this, looks me up and down and says: You just went right through a red light.

I did not. I stopped. The driver of the car turned into me without even looking.

You think you own the road, don’t you? Goddamned bicycles.

I wonder where all this road rage is coming from. Maybe he was caught in the Bike Strike this past weekend. I start to respond, angry myself, when he shows me his ID. Shit, a cop.

Off the bike. Pull it over.

I examine his car. It’s unmarked but through the open window I see the special screen, the scanners, other police tech. My senses sharpen. I follow his instructions, mind racing for ways to defuse the situation. He leaves the motor on. Activates the blue light hidden in the roof.

Bare your wrist. Keep your other hand in plain view.

I slip off my wrist band and extend my arm to him. I try to act casual. Will myself to keep my hand from shaking. Listen, I really don’t think I went through the stop sign. I’m sorry for my reaction, though. It’s been a long day.

Are you armed?

What? No! I’m, I was just on my—

Up against the car.

Quickly, I assume the position, hoping my cooperation will cool his temper. Instead, I realize I’ve made a big mistake.

Done this before, haven’t you? He sounds satisfied and excited at the same time.

I try to push my brain into a higher gear. No. I watch a lot of real crime drama. You know the one with the tall blond policewoman who’s partners with that guy—

Shut up and don’t move.

He begins to read the text that’s come up on his screen. My heart is racing. I need to know what he’s seeing, but it’s impossible from my angle. Scrolling down with his thumb, he turns to me. Maybe I should take you downtown, run your Uni through the big federal database. Then we’ll have a nice little chat, just the two of us.

My mouth gone dry, I don’t reply. What has he noticed? I’ve tried to stay off the grid as much as possible. Used my Uni only when absolutely necessary. Up until now I haven’t had a real problem. Even when I made my application to teach in the public school system, everything went smoothly. Making good on the assurances I’d been given about how my Uni was altered.

I watch the cop carefully. Try to calculate my next move. I’m leaning forward against his car, seemingly calm, but the muscles in my arms are tensed, ready to push up and away, my legs set to spring and run. How long would it take for me to reach my bike, to mount it and flee? On my bike, I could go places it’d be hard for him to follow—the sidewalk, against traffic, into narrow alleys. But there are no narrow alleys in this part of town. Realistically, I have little chance of evading him for long. He has my ID on his screen. And if he’d intended to take me in, he’d’ve simply done it. Not bothered to threaten me with it. If I run, he’ll take me in for sure. Even knowing this, I want to flee so badly it takes every ounce of my strength to remain here, posed against his car, wondering what’s coming next.

He stops reading. Approaches me. He’s not carrying handcuffs. But he’s strapped a phaser stick to his belt. He begins by sliding his hands down my arms and checking my shirt pockets. I try not to flinch. He stops. Puts his hand flat against my chest.

Scared, aren’t you? he asks in a low voice.

No.

Your heart’s going a mile a second. What are you hiding? Tell me.

Nothing ... Well, I’m a teacher. I guess you saw that on the screen?

So what.

I can get into trouble, maybe lose my job.

Yeah, I bet.

They’re very strict at my school. This is not a total lie.

I had a teacher once who told me I’d never amount to anything.

That’s terrible.

You talk too much. Shut the fuck up.

He continues his search, his hand still on my chest, like he wants to monitor my heart rate. His other hand slides down my stomach to my belt. Then down my back. I know he doesn’t actually expect to find a weapon. Otherwise he wouldn’t perform a pat-down in such an unorthodox way. As he’s guessed, I’ve been searched before. So what’s his game?

He’s now moving his hands very slowly below the back of my belt. I’m wondering how long he’s going to leave his hand on my ass; then he slides it between my legs and to the front.

I jerk my body back, away from his hand, feel my shoulder make contact. He grabs me and slams me hard against his car. I feel his phaser stick across the back of my neck, my face and windpipe crushed against the metal as he lurches at me from behind.

Like it this way?

I feel his hot breath against my ear. Struggle to turn my head to the side. I suck in some air. Breathe out, Fuck you. He takes his phaser stick from my neck and smacks me on the hip. The volt sends an agonizing spasm of pain down my left leg and across my crotch.

Or you can taste my stick. He prods me with it from behind.

I don’t trust myself to speak. He waits, then hauls me up by the back of my shirt.

Spread’em. This time don’t move.

I do as he says. He continues from where he left off. I will myself to be perfectly still as I picture my fist smashing into his face. No, I despise violence. But as the search goes on, similar images keep coming into my head. I try to push them away. I concentrate on taking deep, even breaths. If I have to feel this cop’s hands on my body for much longer, I don’t know how I’ll control myself. No, I’ve gotten through worse. If this is all he’s after, I’m pretty sure I’ll be allowed to go home in the end. Home. I focus on that instead. Home and keeping my family safe.

He removes his hands. Tells me I can get up. I push myself away from the car and start to turn around, not looking at him. He grabs me and throws me against his car again, smacking my forehead against its thick, hot metal.

Did I tell you to turn around?

When I don’t answer, he gives me another jolt from his phaser. I barely keep to my feet, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me on my knees.

Then he tells me to open my belt.

TWO

Laek

I’m walking the streets of New Metropolis. Everything’s sketchy, blurry. Faded street signs, hard to make out. I haven’t been here since I was young. Since before I met Janie. But I came here a lot when I was a kid. When I first invented this place. I focus hard, recalling details. The grid reforms around me.

A purple flower bobs in the light wind. I kneel down and caress its velvety petals with my fingertip. Inside the dome where The Community lived, there were no flowers. Not in the middle of the drylands. We were hidden beyond the drought farms, the burnt-out towns. Under the dome, we had our own weather. Artificial lightning. Thunder so loud, my ears pounded with pain.

I check the street sign against my memory of where I am in New Metropolis. In our domed community, none of the streets were named. It didn’t matter because there was no way out. No way to even dig down below. I know because I tried. He said it was our duty to stay inside. Where our environment was a weather experiment. Where a deal with the government kept us fed. And off the grid. And under the power of one powerful man. How bright my mother’s eyes burned when she looked at him. But his eyes looking back were so cold.

New Metropolis has real streets. I named them all when I was eight. I wander over to the central square. Let the water from the fountain run over my hands. I try to wash the dust from my face, from my neck. But it’s not dust I see mixing with the water. It’s blood.

I shove my hands into my pockets. Can I feel my hands? I make them into fists. The nails dig into my palms. Keep walking, I tell myself. It’s safe here. No one can find you. No one can hurt you. Let your mind drift from your body. Your body’s strong. It can take care of itself.

I allow myself to run through the streets of New Metropolis, looking for other people. I don’t like to be alone. All that time in the Thinking Place, in that small, locked room. I tried to make them talk to me. When they left me food. Everyone was too afraid to disobey. And my mother? Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t really know what went on.

New Metropolis has lots of people. I recorded all the demographic data. Created political parties. Held elections. I built schools and big green parks. And lots of playgrounds. I go to one now. See an empty swing. I sit down and start swinging. I go higher and higher, pumping my legs into the air. I can feel my pulse beating in my head, my breath tightening, but I push through it, push until I’m free. I decide to keep swinging until it’s over. I swing for a very long time.

* * *

I land hard. His voice has pulled me out, back to the streets of New York. Telling me, for what’s clearly not the first time, that I can get up and get the hell out of here. That he’s decided to let me off with a warning. I close my belt. Notice the bright red marks on my palms.

I continue my ride down Broadway, shaking my head to clear it. It feels like hours have gone by. I see it’s been less than twenty-five minutes. I ride slowly, stopping at each light. I look over my shoulder, check the traffic in all directions. Even normally, I’m an unusually conscientious cycler. Most people who commute by bike don’t follow all the traffic rules, written and designed for cars. But I prefer to follow a rule when there’s no good reason to break it. Breaking rules has been necessary enough in my life. I stop my bike, confused. Where am I?

I see the sign for Great Jones. I’m tempted to go down to Mott Street, access the narrow twisty lanes of Chinatown. There, I could shake anyone who might be following me. But I have a better idea. One that doesn’t involve me going anywhere near One Police Plaza. I ride all the way to Bowery, then find the Manhattan Bridge bike path.

Biking across the East River, my mind keeps going back to Broadway. My body bent over the police car. I pull myself away. Focus on the ride and my surroundings. It’s hard to keep it out though, so I’m halfway across the river when I wonder about the remark the cop made about his teacher. Did that really happen or was he playing me, even then? I try to put him out of my mind but I keep feeling him behind me. Pedal, I tell myself. Just keep pedaling.

Once in Brooklyn, I take Flatbush all the way to Grand Army Plaza. Make my way into Prospect Park. I take the circular Park Drive, not slowing on the long climb. When I get back to the place where I started, 3.35 miles later, I begin again, this time faster. I go around a third time. Remove my shirt. I breathe in the darkness, grateful for the broken street lamps.

I let myself drift into a cycling zone. Round and round. Faster and faster. Each circuit gets easier. How many times around have I gone? Six, no, seven times. That’s more than 20 miles and I’m not even winded. But, as I look down on the screen of my bike to see how fast I’m going, I suddenly realize how long I’ve been riding in circles and that it’s almost 1 a.m., the park curfew. The Prospect Park Southwest exit comes up and I take it, like a kid stuck in a revolving door who finally stumbles, dizzy, into the street.

I’m OK now. I’m covered in sweat and my body aches, but I’m relaxed and calm. Empty of emotion. Ready to move on. I pedal home. Wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt.

I carry my bike downstairs to the basement apartment. Hang it on the hook mounted on the wall. I peel off my clothes, dump them in the bin, head for the shower. I turn on the hot water and step under before it’s hot. I shut the water, soap up, vigorously cleaning every surface of myself, every crevice. I rinse with the still-cold water coming out of the hot tap. I soap up and repeat the process. The water’s begun to get warm, quickly turning hot. I let it run over me for as long as I can stand it. I switch to cold, remaining still as the freezing water pours over me.

I step out of the shower. Pat myself dry. Walk down the hall. I check on Siri and Simon. All is quiet. I enter my own bedroom and slip under the sheet. As I review the events of the day, it’s only then that I begin to tremble. Bitter anger, terror, exhaustion, I let it all pour through me. Almost instantly, Janie wraps herself around me. My tremors slow, then stop. I lie quietly in her arms. She asks me what happened, if I want to talk. I say no, that I’m OK. For once, she doesn’t press me and I’m grateful. Then she kisses me, opening her lips against mine. I kiss her back, then turn away, telling her I’m sorry, that I need to sleep. She says it’s OK, that she’s tired too. She snuggles up against me and I feel safer, her breath soft against my neck.

A long time later, I’m still awake, struggling to keep my thoughts from slipping backwards. I give up trying to sleep and instead think about the next day’s classes. The week’s lessons have already been planned. Tomorrow’s subject: the social contract.

THREE

Janie

My heart wakes before my head, telling me something’s wrong without knowing what it is. I glance over at Laek sleeping, his long arms and legs sticking out from under the sheet, and the memory of our fight last night comes flooding back. Shit! Did I really tell him to fucking grow up and live in the real world? Laek, of all people, with