Foreverland Is Dead

what?”
    Another pause. “Reality confusion, for one.”
    Sure. Which one is the dream?
    “Patricia spent many years in a psychiatric ward before her son, Harold Ballard, took her. There are no records of where they went, but Harold is the one that created Foreverland. We can only guess that he used her to develop another alternate universe.”
    Linda strokes the blanket over the old woman’s leg.
    “She suffered from a split personality before her husband’s experiment. He claims that he was attempting to heal her mind, to place her in a supportive alternate reality before waking her back up. Unfortunately, it locked her inside of her mind.”
    “You think she’s a victim?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t know what’s happening; she’s just trying to survive, trying to make sense out of her reality like the rest of us. Imagine being the only person in the universe.”
    Cyn feels like that now. She bends over the old woman’s face. It smells like mold.
    “We hope to begin interpreting what’s inside her, to see her world, like pointing a camera inside her mind. If we can do that, we can communicate with her and the girls. Guide them out.”
    The wire is right in front of her. It would only take a second to rip it out, to end the girls’ suffering. Would the universe turn off? She can’t do that. As much as she wants the suffering to stop, she can’t take the chance that she’ll make it worse.
    “How did you get out, Cynthia?” Linda says, sensing her thoughts.
    Cyn shakes her head. What good would it do if she knew? They can’t tell the girls. All they can do is wait.
    And waiting helps nothing.

54

    The generators cycle on and off all night. Cyn hardy notices them anymore. Like the rooster.
    But there’s no rooster here. No horses.
    Just lots of people. Lots of food.
    And guilt.
    Linda’s gone. Probably an early morning meeting. When she’s not prodding Cyn to remember, she’s talking to the important people. She hasn’t said anything about home; maybe they were talking about sending her somewhere else. Like a lab for experimenting. For some reason, this place feels like home, not somewhere else. That should alarm her.
    There’s a chill this morning, enough to make her hurry getting dressed. She digs a yogurt out of the cooler, peels the foil off the top while stepping outside. Her breath is foggy.
    The two helicopters are still in the field. The ATVs are lined up at the dinner house. She sees people sitting at the table through the windows, more of a meeting than a meal. Cyn dishes out the peach-infused yogurt and goes around the back. The backdoor to the bunkhouse is unlocked.
    The inside smells clean.
    The nurse isn’t there. The door clicks behind her. Nothing moves. Clear bags hang on metal stands, empty tubes running inside skin. She rubs her arm where the stent was removed—still sore.
    She’s smothered by the silence. Five bodies, but nobody here.
    The front door opens. A young man sets a box on the floor, washing his hands at the dispenser set up on a small table. He’s smaller than Cyn by a few inches, maybe a few pounds, too. He pulls the blanket off of Kat’s body, bunching it at her feet, and turns her onto her side, careful not to disturb the tubes and wires.
    And needle.
    He does the same to Jen and Mad.
    “Oh good gracious!” He jumps back. “Have you been standing there the whole time, young lady?”
    Cyn doesn’t answer.
    “Scared the hell out of me.” He strips the blanket off of Roc. “Grab her feet.”
    He doesn’t ask if she wants to help, just tells her. And that’s enough to get her going. She approaches the foot of the bed, nervous to be that close to her. For some reason, touching her makes it real.
    Feels like meat.
    “Go wash your hands,” he says. “I could use some help setting up bags and rubbing them down. Jackie is still taking care of Sandy and we’re a little behind.”
    Sandy?
    Cyn goes to the dispenser, rubs the sanitizing gel on her hands while he opens the box, pulling out six bags. Each contains separate packets that need to be mixed. He sets those aside.
    Cyn hangs them on the stands. He connects them.
    He shows her how to rub their legs, focusing on the pressure points where bedsores are likely to fester, including the buttocks. The beds, he says, are specifically designed to relieve pressure, but can’t prevent sores indefinitely.
    “If we weren’t doing this, it’d get real smelly in here.”
    He lets her massage