The gaze that they had shared had been more than a gaze: it was a very real and physical exchange. An agreement. April had given something of herself to Joseph, and Joseph had given something of himself to April. She wasn’t sure, exactly, what he’d given her. But she felt it, the small heft of it, like the weight of a sleeping thing, resting in her hands. And now, in the silence, she cradled it tightly.
A surge of emotion rose in April, and with it, the ardent hope that he would take her by the hand. Instead, she just looked at his hand, which was gently squeezing the armrest only an inch away from her. It was such a strong hand. And an eloquent one. The thickness of his hand spoke of constructive labor.
He was so quiet, she wondered if he was asleep. But he wasn’t. She could tell because his hand continued to squeeze the armrest, an inch from her—ever so gently, or at least, as gentle as such a strong hand could be. She shifted her leg as many centimeters closer to his hand as she could without touching him. Close enough for the rocking of the bus to bring his hand and her leg into regular intervals of gentle contact.
She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. As she fell asleep for real, she felt her leg finally lose its ability to resist his hand. It met his touch for a long, warm two seconds. In her last waking thought, April reckoned this contact was one second beyond what might be called an “accidental touch.” He was keeping his hand there on purpose. Finally, Joseph removed his hand from the armrest, and as she fell into slumber, she tried to suppress a smile.
Chapter Three
Rose looked at the concrete wall. She dragged herself up to it and put her palm against it. It was ice-cold. But it offered relief. She was, she suddenly realized, drenched in sweat, her head swimming against riptides of fever. Now she found herself leaning her body against the wall; now she found herself pressing her cheek against it, absorbing the soothing coldness of it. Her movements didn’t seem like decisions. Her body was just reacting. But slowly. And her brain was moving even slower, registering these actions with a second or two delay. It must have been only a few seconds, but it was enough to deeply disorient her. Maybe it wasn’t a one-second delay? Maybe it was one minute? Maybe a day? A week. Maybe a month had passed.
Her feet were somehow moving now, shuffling. Were they shackled? It felt like they were. She turned to look, and a sharp pain gripped her neck. But there were no chains or ropes of any kind on her feet. She arrived at the edge of the wall. At a corner. She now realized she was running her hand over the corner, sticking her fingers into the nook where concrete met concrete, as though looking for something stuck inside it. Her fingers seemed to want to confirm that the world was still three-dimensional, and that the time was now, the present.
The cold reality of the concrete wall might have confirmed the existence of space and time, but it didn’t tell her who she was. The memories in her mind of a past life were not even images but sounds—a melody of a song, the tone of a woman’s voice. They were as vague and paper-thin as the suddenly re-called sounds of a long-forgotten dream. She now found her brain telling her that this wall was where she’d always been, always lived. This was all there was. Her eye caught the image of a tattoo, a rose snaking around her arm. She saw it. She looked at it. But it didn’t register in her brain, didn’t connect to anything, and it immediately slipped out of mind and was forgotten.
Rose slumped against the wall. She was sinking. She balled herself up on the ground, back against the wall, holding her knees to her chest. All of a sudden she was intensely cold. So, so cold. She could not move anything. There was nothing near her, or anywhere, that could give warmth. And even if there was, she couldn’t move any part of her body to get closer to it.
This was what it meant to freeze to death. It meant being a frozen planet in empty expanses of space. In a death that creeps as slow as ice, the brain and the organs are the last things to go. Rose felt it unmistakably. Because water expands as it freezes, the body, which is mostly water, expands internally, pushing slowly but with increasing firmness against its own veins and arteries. Pressing on the heart and lungs. Pressing against the brain. The brain starts to shock and malfunction. But slowly. The organs continue working, though with painful inefficiency, with occasional spasms that wake the victim up, just as they begin to drift off into the relief of unconsciousness, as though to prolong the agony of witnessing, utterly alone, from deep within a hardening body, living death. Rose was too exhausted to scream. But her head resounded with a long, hopeless, radiating shriek.
* * *
April arrived at Reading Market fifteen minutes early, rather than her customary fifteen-to-thirty minutes late.
“Hey there,” Carmen said, as April walked into the bakery, “you’re in early today.”
Carmen paused in the midst of entering yesterday’s cash register numbers into her iPad; she watched April make a beeline for an apron that hung on a rack near the counter, then pull up her sleeves, tie back her hair, wash her hands, and get immediately to work transferring fresh-made croissants from a baking rack to a display shelf.
“Look at you,” Carmen continued. Then Carmen took her own advice and took a closer look at April.
“Wait, there’s something different about you,” she said.
April just shrugged and continued stacking croissants.
“What is it?” Carmen said, squinting at April. “Hey . . . you’re wearing extra makeup!” Carmen noted.
“Are you gonna do this all day?”
“Okay, and now you’re blushing!” Carmen got up from her seat and walked toward April. “So let’s see here,” she said, and stood right in front of April, trying to look her directly in the eye. “You’re early. You’re wearing purple eye shadow. And now . . . you’re blushing? What is going on, girl?”
April told her about the bus ride. About Joseph. About listening to the song with him, just the two of them, in the dark bus, leaning in with their heads close together, listening to those two old-timey country people singing about how the Mississippi River couldn’t keep them apart. And she told Carmen about how strong Joseph’s hands were.
“His hands, huh?” Carmen said, narrowing her eyes. “Hmm.”
April just smiled.
“And this kid works here, at Reading?”
“Yeah! He was the guy who was posting the ‘Missing’ signs for Rose. He works at the Amish diner,” April said, pointing across the way. “But only half the week. And not on Sundays, because that’s the Lord’s Day.”
“Oh boy,” Carmen said. And then she added, “Well, you look really nice, sweetie.”
* * *
For the next few days, April arrived earlier than she ever had. And she showed up wearing her best outfits. During any lulls, she’d wander over to the Amish diner and wave to Joseph as he worked. She’d watch him closely. When he took breaks, she took breaks. They ate lunch together. She brought him cookies from the bakery. She even convinced him to join her on the other side of the market, far from prying eyes.
Since April was actually working harder than usual, Carmen couldn’t really complain but, still, something about this flirtation bothered her. When she saw April lingering near the diner, she’d call her over and make up a task for her to do. When she caught April messing up a customer’s change—because she was spying on the Amish diner—Carmen came up behind her and whispered, “Stay on point, hon.”
Once, she was even more direct. When April arrived at work looking particularly stylish, Carmen greeted her by saying, “It’s not like he’s gonna notice—and even if he does, those people don’t go for that.” But she immediately regretted saying it when she saw April’s face drop.
She