Rewinder (19 page)

“You’re going already?” she asks as I start to walk away. “You haven’t finished your coffee.”

“It’s yours if you want it,” I tell her, and then leave the shop.

__________

I
AM BACK
at the library at one p.m. sharp, and am deep in a book about the “rise of social media” on the “Internet,” when someone sits down on the other side of the table. Enthralled as I am by a computer network that connects people from around the world, I register the person’s presence only on a subconscious level.

In my timeline, we have our version of computers, but the network through which data can be obtained is tightly controlled, and as far as I know does not extend beyond the borders of the empire. Here, you can witness live events happening half a world away, read “posts” by anyone affected by revolt and protest, or by people just discussing their lives.

It’s hard to explain how this makes me feel. I know from my research that the people of this reality are not free to do whatever they want. Some are close to achieving that, while many others are restricted by heavy-handed political rule or sheer poverty. Or both. But in my world, almost everyone lives under heavy-handed rules, and there are at least as many poor as there are here.

“If you’re writing a research paper, why aren’t you taking any notes?”

I glance up and am surprised to find Iffy sitting across from me.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m busy,” I tell her.

“I can see you’re busy. I’ve seen you be busy for several days now.”

So, I
was
being watched.

“That probably sounded a little creepy, didn’t it?” she says, then pushes her chair away from the table. “Sorry I bothered you.”

With that, she’s gone.

I know I should be troubled by the fact she’s been watching me, but the sense that I somehow know her stays with me and makes me almost wish she didn’t leave. It takes several minutes, but I’m finally able to get back to work.

__________

U
NFORTUNATELY, NOT ONLY
does the library open late on Sundays, but it also closes early, so at five p.m. I’m forced to leave with the rest of the afternoon crowd. When I walk outside, Iffy is standing there.

“That croissant was a long time ago,” she says as she falls in step beside me. “I bet you’re hungry.”

Though a part of me is secretly glad to see her, I need to keep to myself. “I don’t know what you want, but you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Guy,” she says.

“What?”

“Wrong guy. That sounds more natural.”

Frowning, I say, “Whichever way, the statement still applies.”

“You have an interesting way of speaking. Where are you from?”

“Please, leave me alone.”

I pick up my pace but she matches me stride for stride.

“Okay, maybe that was prying too much,” she says. “But you’ve got to eat. Do you like Peruvian?”

“I’m not hungry, thank you.”

“Aw, come on. Now you’re straight out lying. That’s not nice.”

I make the mistake of glancing at her, and for half a second lose myself in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say as I pull my gaze away.

“Then make it up to me by buying me dinner. It’s not expensive, trust me.”

I stop and turn to her. “Why are you doing this?”

“We both need to eat, don’t we?”

“No, I mean, why are you talking to me?”

She hesitates and then looks at the ground as she says, “You seem interesting.”

“Now you’re the one who’s lying.”

“I’m not. You
do
seem interesting. And we do both need to eat.”

She tents her eyebrows and smiles in a way that pushes her left cheek up. I stare at her, telling myself I need to walk away, but I don’t. “Okay. I’ll buy you dinner.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

W
HEN SHE LEADS
me into the metro station, I almost back out.

“You wanted Peruvian, right?” she says. Before I can point out that was her choice, not mine, she continues, “The best place I know is in Hollywood.”

“Hollywood?” This is a name I’ve read quite a bit since I shifted into researching popular culture. Despite my reservations, I’m intrigued. “How far?”

“Just a few stops.”

I relent, and we board the next westbound train.

“You have been to Hollywood before, haven’t you?” she asks after we take seats next to the door in the nearly empty car.

“No.” There’s no Hollywood in New Cardiff.

“So I’m right. You’re not from here. Where, then?”

“Far from here.”

She smirks. “Never heard of that place.”

I shrug, but don’t give her any more.

Neither of us says anything until after the train makes its first stop. When the doors close again, Iffy says, “Okay, so Hollywood’s probably not what you think it is. The one you see on TV or read about is more up here.” She taps her head. “The physical Hollywood is a little rougher around the edges than you tourist types are expecting.”

“I’m not a tourist.”

“You know what I mean. The city’s trying to make it more like what people are hoping to see and they’re getting there, but there’s still a lot of real Hollywood around.” The way she says this makes me think she prefers this
real
Hollywood. “You’ll see what I mean.”

We get off at the Hollywood/Vine station and surface to a crowded walkway. The main part of the sidewalk is black with red stars set into it, each containing a different name written in gold. Across the street, there are even more people gathered under the wide awning of a building.

“Pantages Theatre,” she tells me. “
Newsies
this month. You seen it?”

I shake my head.

“Yeah, neither have I. Come on.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me through the throngs of pedestrians in front of a building with a big red W in front. At the corner, she turns left. Here, the sidewalk is less crowded, but it doesn’t seem like she’ll let go of my hand so I do it for her.

She glances at me with those tented eyebrows again and begins to sprint. “Hurry up,” she yells. “It’s only a couple of blocks and I’m starving.”

It feels good to run down the sidewalk, weaving between people, with this strange girl leading me. For a few moments, all thoughts of what I’ve done are pushed miles away and I almost feel happy.

As promised, the restaurant isn’t far. Several of the employees greet Iffy as we walk in and take a table along the wall. She does the ordering and then excuses herself to use the toilet.

Leave,
a tiny voice in my head whispers.
Get out of here
. I try to shove it away, but before I’m able to do so, it says,
The last thing you need is to make a connection with anyone here.

This makes me pause. The voice is right. At some point, I’ll be returning to 1775 to fix the mistake I committed, which will then wipe out this world. The only reason I haven’t gone yet is my fascination with this place, but as soon as I finish my research, I’ll make the trip.

That’s what I’ve been telling myself, at least.

Leave her here and go. You’ve already learned all you need to know.

I almost give in to the command, but then I see her walking back across the restaurant. I see her easy smile. I see her intelligent yet guarded eyes. And I don’t move.

The food is as good as she said it would be. We talk as we eat. Well, she does most of the talking, telling me of things I should see while I’m in town, of her classes at college, of the job she recently quit or was fired—I’m still not clear which.

After we finish and I’ve put enough money on the table to cover the bill, she says, “You know, if you need a place to stay, there’s a room at the house I live in. The lady who owns it rents them out. It’s not too far from here.”

The offer catches me off guard. “That’s okay. I, uh, have someplace already.”

“Trust me, the house is a hell of a lot better than that rundown hotel you’ve been crashing in.”

The smile slips from my face and I slowly lean back. “You followed me to my hotel?”

“That doesn’t sound good, does it?” she says. “I really need to work on my phrasing.”

Get out of here. Run. Go!

I fight the urge to launch myself from the table. “Why are you following me?”

“I told you, you’re interesting.”

“And I told you you’re lying.”

When I see the hesitation in her eyes again, I know I’m right.

I lean forward. “Did someone put you up to this? Are you a police officer?”

“Police? Why? Did you commit a crime?”

I did
.
I committed the biggest crime ever.

This is getting me nowhere, and the best thing I can do is leave. I pull on my satchel as I shove up from the table.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” she says.

I stop. “You won’t know that unless you try.”

She looks down at her hands and takes a deep breath. “We’re connected, okay? I don’t know how or why, but we just are. About a week ago, I had this…episode, followed by a terrible headache. When it finally went away, I knew you were out there. In fact, I seem to always know exactly where you are.” She looks up at me again. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

The problem is, I do believe her. No, not just believe her. I
know
she’s right.

Somehow, someway, my Chaser has turned Iffy into my companion.

But this is way too much for me to deal with. I stumble forward and race out of the restaurant.

__________

T
HAT NIGHT, AS
I lie in my hotel bed, desperate for sleep, Iffy’s voice keeps me awake as she says over and over in my head, “I knew you were out there…I seem to always know where you are.”

__________

M
Y TIME WITH
Iffy has unnerved me, so the next morning I avoid the library and get out of downtown for a few hours.

From the metro station, I catch what’s called the Purple Line as far west as it goes, to a station called Wilshire/Western. As I approach the top of the moving stairway—the escalator, I’ve now learned—I think I must still be in downtown. The buildings here are like those in the center of the city, tall and sleek. But after walking a few blocks, I realize that these merely line Wilshire Boulevard, and none go quite as high as those in the city center.

The area is full of signs written in symbols I don’t recognize. Some include English, and I deduce from the multiple times I see the word
KOREA
that the symbols are from the language of that country. Research from the past week flashes in my mind: Korea. Asian peninsula west of Japan, bordering China and a very tiny strip of Russia. Split into two countries, North and South. The divide was created when the Korean War in the 1950s reached a stalemate. The South is more aligned with the commerce culture of what is called “the West.” The North is ruled by a totalitarian regime handed down from father to son, and is largely cut off from the rest of the world.

In my timeline, Korea is part of a different China and seldom mentioned.

I wander around until I spot a coffee shop and go in. I’m still too uncertain to try one of the fancy-named drinks these places offer—not to mention they’d deplete most of my cash reserves—so I order a simple coffee. Once I have my cup, I look around for an open chair.

Iffy sits at a small round table along the wall. She’s looking at me, her smile tentative and a bit worried. Me? I’m having a full on panic attack—racing heart, cold sweats, and the sudden inability to catch my breath.

I head toward the door, my attention more on the danger behind me than where I’m going.

“Excuse me!”

I jerk to a stop just in time to avoid spilling my coffee on an older Asian woman.

“Watch where you’re going,” she says.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her.

As I step past her toward the exit, I toss my untouched drink in the trash bin and rush outside.

A few seconds later, I hear Iffy shout, “Denny!”

“Leave me alone!” I yell back.

“I’m not following you. I’ve been here for twenty minutes. I…I knew you’d come.”

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to even think about what her words mean so I pick up my pace until I’m running. Behind me, I can hear her running, too, but I think I can outrun her.

Finally, her pounding steps stop. “Be careful, Denny! Something’s coming!”

I look toward the street, thinking she’s warning me about a vehicle headed toward me, but there’s only stopped traffic on the road. So I race on, not slowing until I’m blocks and blocks away.

__________

T
HE REST OF
the day is spent wandering around in a partial daze. Each time I turn a corner I expect to see Iffy waiting for me, but she doesn’t reappear. When darkness falls, I return to my hotel.

The next morning I wake early, gasping for air. Whatever dream I was having is lost, but the anxiety it induced still surges under my skin.

I check the time. I plan to return to the library that morning. If Iffy can find me at a random coffee shop miles away, what’s the use in hiding? But according to the clock, it’s just shy of 5:30 a.m. The library won’t be open for another four and a half hours.

As I roll on my side, I notice something’s been shoved under the door to my room. Assuming it’s a note from the proprietor, I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. It’s a futile effort. There’s still too much adrenaline coursing through me for sleep to return anytime soon, so I shower and dress in another set of the cheap clothes I’ve purchased, and then decide I might as well head out.

The note is still waiting for me when I reach the door. I pick it up and unfold it. The message starts with an address, and below it:

That room’s still available.

Iffy

PS. I wasn’t following you.