out under the edge of his WVU wool cap. Their previous bedroom, the lieutenant governor’s office, had been ransacked by the Rapture. Black night dipped in through the windows: this side of the Capitol was a face turned from the moon, and the objects cast across the floor—an iPod, two toy guns—were only weird buoys floating disembodied in the dark. Hank’s vague form, far away on a cot, shifted. Wind like a far train in the halls.
Michael pulled Patrick’s blanket to his armpits, to let him tuck it under himself the way he liked. But Patrick didn’t.
How long do you think until that unit gets here? everyone had asked. What road were you on when you saw them? Are you sure you don’t know? Not in so many words, not in words at all. But building up to words, which Patrick would hear and be confused and frightened by: Michael could hear it in the way their breath kept pausing as if on unformed sentences. And suddenly, barely, Michael got an idea: “I’m going to give Patrick a shower.” They had, after all, not had a real one in weeks. They had, after all, earned it, getting to this, ha-ha, Safe Zone. Hank had still been asking questions as Michael carried Patrick away.
Who was it that said people need hope?
It was Bobbie.
When Patrick stripped in the showers attached to the Capitol’s weight room, the rodlike appearance of his ribs sent a black surge of helplessness through Michael that nearly made him shake. Patrick’s hands were going up to his ears, and Michael knew that he was going to begin scratching at them, yanking at them, and Michael looked in his eyes and saw a flash of what Patrick saw—him, bewildered and depressed and scared—and understood what he wanted to see instead. So Michael “slipped” on the shower’s clean tiles until Patrick smiled. His smile was no more real than Michael’s.
While they were showering, Captain Jopek sneaked into Michael’s frightened mind. In his imagination, Jopek placed the cold eye of his pistol to the back of his head. “If you care ’bout Bobbie Lou so much,” he whispered, “I’ll be glad to send you to her.” Michael knew it was not real, but he turned again and again, almost expecting to see the captain pixelate into existence from the shower mist, like some grim phantom coming to issue judgment and death.
Michael sat down next to Patrick’s cot. He noticed dust on the blanket and brushed it clean. Brushed it, brushed it.
“Michael?” his brother said.
“Well, better hit the hay,” Michael replied too quickly. He stopped brushing the blanket, couldn’t figure out where to put his hands instead. His thighs.
Stop looking at me, Patrick. Stop trying to figure out how I feel. You won’t like it.
“Are you gonna talk to the Game Master tonight?” Patrick said hesitatingly. A bitter, frightening laugh tried to rise in Michael’s throat. “Will you ask him why’s he lettin’ the Bellows change? And the cheaters keep cheating? And what we’re gonna do tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
And it won’t matter.
“Time to sleep, though. Do you want a pill?” Michael said.
Patrick hesitated, obviously divided.
You didn’t need one last night, when you thought I got us safe, Michael thought.
After a moment’s pause, Patrick nodded.
Michael got the Atipax bottle from their bag, angling it so that Patrick couldn’t see how few were left. Two more pills after this one.
Patrick stuck out his tongue and carefully put the pill on it. A little water dribbled down his chin as he drank from the Red Cross plastic water bottle. Red crosses. Madness written on the walls.
“Thank you,” Patrick said, wiping his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Michael blurted. Couldn’t help it. I’m sorry I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize that the Safe Zone didn’t mean The End. Sorry we’re in this room, breathing the same air as these people. Sorry you want to be like me. ’Cause, what exactly do you think you’ll be if you are like me?
“Sorry . . . I snapped at you when we were going to the movie theater,” Michael finished.
“No, you did a good job, Gamer!” Patrick said. His face was a mask of enthusiasm. And right then, Michael realized something. Lying on an abandoned cot in the dark heart of the Capitol and all of its false promises, Patrick was not pretending to be brave or to feel okay.
Patrick’s trying to make me feel better. Michael’s face prickled, a burn of shame. Michael is my protector, Patrick