Foreverland Is Dead

in her pocket, hands her a folded piece of paper. Linda flips it over.

    What do I remember? Nothing.

    “You have lovely handwriting.” Linda hands it back.
    Cyn wads it up.
    It’s that question again. Over and over, they ask it. She’s not pissed at Linda; it’s just that the answer doesn’t come to her—it only muddles her brain. Frustrates her. Like she doesn’t want to remember.
    And she does.
    Suddenly, she’s full. She puts the apple core on the porch railing and leans against it with the sudden urge to vomit.
    She can’t remember specific things. She just knows what they feel like. Heavy and thick and wet. Whatever memories she has, she doesn’t remember them but they weigh her down.
    “No one cares,” she says.
    “I care.”
    Cyn spits. “No offense, but that’s your job. You don’t know me.”
    “I don’t have to know you to care.”
    There’s thumping in the distance, like wind harvesters coming down from the sky. A black dot approaches from the east, the chopper blades echoing off the trees.
    “This might be a dream. Ever thought of that?”
    “This is not a dream, Cynthia. You woke up, you’re here and now. Trust me.”
    “Why should I trust anything?”
    “You can trust me.”
    “Saying it don’t make it true.”
    The mug hovers beneath Linda’s chin. “No. It doesn’t.”
    Cyn feels the helicopter in her chest, the percussion banging inside her, stirring up anxiety. She wants to run, but where would she go?
    It hovers in the meadow, slowly dropping the landing skids into the grass, thrashing the wildflowers in the downdraft. A few people jog out to meet it, one of them Thomas. They help a man and woman out of the back door, shake hands, shouting to be heard. They half-duck until they’re clear of the blades.
    “More experts?” Cyn asks.
    “There’s a lot of evidence. This camp was abandoned when we arrived. The people who brought you out here had escaped, leaving you and the others behind. We need to know what’s going on, how it works. Are there other places like this?”
    A truck goes out to the helicopter; supplies are loaded into the back. Once that’s finished, the pilot salutes and, when it’s all clear, lifts off. Cyn feels the downdraft this time.
    The new guests stand in front of the brick house. Two people come out to meet them. There’s a meeting on the front step. Thomas gestures toward the dinner house and they all turn.
    Pretty soon, he’s walking toward them.
    “How did you escape?” Linda asks. “They’re going to want to know.”
    Thomas doesn’t wave them over. He’s going to make the trip all the way to the porch.
    “You don’t have to go, Cynthia. If you’re not ready, you don’t have to see everything, not yet. You can rest, get yourself grounded. I’d prefer you remember more so that you know who you are.”
    The helicopter is far above the trees.
    The girls still have needles in their heads. Still in the dream. Cyn’s not going sit on the front porch sipping tea while they starve.
    “Remembering doesn’t make me who I am,” Cyn says distantly. “My soul ain’t memories.”
    Linda sips. They watch Thomas approach.
    “Some people want to talk to you.” He puts his hands on his hips.
    Cyn steps off the porch. He leads the way.
    Linda puts her mug down and follows.

52

    Cyn stops at the tall grass.
    There’s a faint line, a subtle difference in how the grass grows, that crosses in front of the house, circles around it. Not one these people would notice.
    Cyn stands at the line, the end of her boots almost touching.
    “You okay?” Linda is almost to the steps.
    She rubs her neck, wondering. When she woke up, she was the first one to hit the fence, like a cattle prod to the back of the head.
    “Cynthia?” Linda’s next to her. “We don’t have to go inside.”
    She shakes her head. Takes a breath. “There’s this thing in our neck.”
    “We know. They used it to track your location. It shouldn’t be hard to remove, once you’re back.”
    “It did other things.”
    Linda gives her space to sort through the thoughts.
    “There were places we couldn’t go or it would go off.”
    “How?”
    “Like a jolt to the nervous system. If we crossed that line,” —she points at the soft line, follows it around the corner— “We were knocked unconscious. We called it a fence.”
    Linda’s nodding. “I’m sorry, Cynthia. The boys from the island had something similar, but it wasn’t activated by a fence. Are there