Prodigal Son

companies. Having downloaded these tones in preparation for this odyssey, he has replayed them hundreds of times until he can unfailingly identify any code by the tones that comprise it.
        Because the file-room door intervenes, the tones are muffled. If he didn't have the enhanced hearing of the New Race, Randal might not be able to identify the code: 368284.
        A soft burrrrr indicates that the circuit engaging the lock has been broken.
        Although the door is not in Randal's line of sight, the creak of hinges suggests that Father has opened it. Footsteps on vinyl tile reveal that Father has entered the file room.
        Out of view of the main aisle, Randal suddenly wonders to what degree, if any, Father's senses might have been enhanced-and he holds his breath lest the faintest exhalation reveal his presence.
        Without hesitation, Father's footsteps cross the room.
        The outer door falls shut behind him, and the burrrrr of the disengaged lock is cut short by the hard snap of the bolt.
        The inner door opens, closes, and Father is now gone into the basement corridor where piles of rubble remind him of a bad day here at the bottom of Mercy.
        Patience is a virtue that Randal has in spades. He does not move at once from hiding, but waits a few minutes until Father is almost certainly on another floor, far out of hearing.
        Vinyl square by vinyl square, he spells himself to the outer door. Here, as on the other side, there is a keypad. He enters the code: 368284.
        The electric lock releases. He puts his hand on the door but cannot find the courage to open it.
        Beyond, there is no Mercy. All is new and full of bewildering choices.
        He delays so long that the electric lock engages once more.
        He enters the code in the keypad. The lock releases: burrrrr.
        He tells himself to open the door. He cannot.
        The lock engages once more.
        Trembling, he stands before the door, terrified to go through it, but also terrified to remain on this side.
        Into his tortured mind comes the memory of the newspaper photo: Arnie O'Connor, autistic but smiling. Arnie is clearly happier than Randal has ever been or ever will be.
        A bitter, caustic sense of injustice floods through Randal. This emotion is so intense that he fears it will dissolve him from the inside out if he does not take action to secure for himself the happiness that Arnie O'Connor enjoys.
        The little snot. The hateful little worm, selfishly keeping the secret of happiness. What right does he have to be happy when a child of Father, superior in every way, lives in misery more than Mercy?
        Again he enters the code. Burrrrr.
        He pushes on the door. It opens.
        Randal Six spells himself across the threshold, out of Mercy, into the unknown.

CHAPTER 61
        
        THROUGH THE DOOR, Carson heard scary-movie music. She rang the bell, rang it again before the first series of chimes quite finished echoing through the apartment beyond.
        In undershirt, jeans, and stocking feet, Michael answered the door. Tousled hair. Puffy face. Eyes heavy-lidded from the weight of a sleep not fully cast off. He must have dozed in his big green-leatherette recliner.
        He looked adorable.
        Carson wished he was grungy. Or slovenly. Or geeky. The last thing she wanted to feel toward a partner was physical attraction.
        Instead, he looked as cuddly as a teddy bear. Worse, the sight of him filled her with a warm, agreeable feeling consisting largely of affection but not without an element of desire.
        Shit.
        "It's just ten o'clock," she said, pushing past him into the apartment, "and you're asleep in front of the TV What're those orange crumbs on your T-shirt? Cheez Doodles?"
        "Exactly," he said, following her into the living room. "Cheez Doodles. You are a detective."
        "Can I assume you're sober?"
        "Nope. Had two diet root beers."
        He yawned, stretched, rubbed at his eyes with the back of one fist. He looked edible.
        Carson tried to derail that train of thought. Indicating the massive green recliner, she said, "That is the ugliest lump of a chair I've ever seen. Looks like a fungus scraped out of a latrine in Hell."
        "Yeah, but it's my fungus from Hell, and I love it."
        Pointing to the TV, she said, "Invasion of the Body