Glitch

jutting up. It was a nightmares-
    cape, cruel and uninviting.
    Occasionally we passed other vehicles on the road but
    the glass of each car was so darkly tinted, I couldn’t see the
    people inside. Adrien’s knuckles whitened on the wheel every
    time one went by. I fi nally stopped looking out the windows
    and focused on him. I couldn’t tell how long we’d been
    driving in silence— twenty, maybe thirty minutes? His face
    was taut, almost blank. For a second, he looked like he was
    connected to the Link, but then I noticed him chewing his
    bottom lip.
    He was tense. He’d seemed so confi dent ever since he’d
    burst into the offi
    cial’s room, it was strange seeing him look-
    ing anxious.
    Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe he didn’t really know
    what he was doing. How much did I even know about him?
    “Are you in acceptable condition?” I fi nally asked, my
    voice sounding overly loud in the small space of the car.
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    Heather Anastasiu
    “What?” He looked over at me as if he’d forgotten I was
    there. “Yeah, I’m fi ne. Sorry, I’m just on edge. I don’t like be-
    ing out in the open like this.”
    “I don’t like it, either,” I said. “There’s so much space.” I
    dared a glance upward out the window, then pulled back
    quickly. “It’s too big.”
    He laughed. “No, I love that kind of openness. I’ve felt so
    claustrophobic the past few weeks. I hate being underground
    and not being able to see the sun. It’s so godlam’d cold down
    there too. I don’t know how you guys do it.”
    “But you said—”
    “I just don’t like driving on roads I know are monitored.
    Makes me feel exposed. I think we made a clean escape and
    this vehicle looks regulation from the outside, it should pass
    their satellite cams without problem. The Rez.” He looked
    at me and smiled. “Sorry, I should be explaining more as I
    go. Rez is short for Re
    sis tance. Anyway, we just usually
    avoid the cities, you know, so it feels kind of cracked to just
    be cruising down these streets out in the open.” He glanced
    over at me. “But it’s nothing to worry about. I’ve run ops in
    the city before.”
    I stared at him openmouthed for a second, then shook my
    head. “You do realize that nothing you are saying makes any
    sense.”
    He laughed again. His laugh was completely diff erent
    from how the offi
    cial’s had been. It sounded nice. In spite of
    all the feelings and new sensations swirling around right now,
    the sound of it made me feel warm inside.
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    G L I TC H
    “I’ve never met anyone like you. . . .” I paused, trying to
    fi nd the word. “Someone else who’s . . .”
    He reached over and squeezed my hand, his eyes still fac-
    ing forward. “You aren’t the only one, Zoe. You’re not alone
    anymore.”
    He removed his hand and put it back on the wheel, but his
    touch left behind a lingering warmth. I ran my fi nger over
    that part of my hand in wonder.
    “Can you talk and navigate at the same time?” I asked.
    “Because I would like to hear some of those answers you
    promised earlier.”
    “Soon,” he said. “We’re almost at the checkpoint.
    Besides . . .” He glanced over at me. “My mom can explain
    it all better than I can.”
    “Your mother! You mean, she’s not . . .”
    “Nope, not a Link drone.”
    I was stunned. I hadn’t even imagined the possibility of
    parents who were free of the Link. I looked out the window,
    upset and confused about what I was feeling. This was an
    emotion I didn’t have a name for. My eyes stung and when I
    reached up under my glasses to rub them, my fi ngers came
    away wet. Everything was happening too fast. I couldn’t sort
    out one confusing thing before another came up.
    “What about your father?” I asked. I knew there
    were
    more pressing questions, but I was still stunned by the thought
    of parents who weren’t Linked. After adulthood and the fi nal
    V-chip installation, subjects never glitched. They only worked
    at their Community jobs all day and night until their bodies
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    Heather Anastasiu
    become unproductive and they were deactivated. Glitching
    parents were an impossibility.
    “He died when I was small,” Adrien said. “It’s just been
    Mom and me for as long as I can remember. She’s kind of a
    hard- ass.”
    He glanced over and must have seen my confusion at the
    term. “She’s really protective of me. My dad died doing work
    for the Rez, so she shuntin’ hated it when I started working
    for them