The blade hit the log a bit off center, but the blade still dug in, sending wood chips flying.
“So, obviously, you caught that Holland is my relative. Uncle. My mom was his sister.”
The hatchet lifted again, then lowered.
Thwack.
Air whooshed from my lungs. Yes, I guess I’d figured that much out, but to hear him say it aloud. . . . That he was related by blood to Holland. It was almost unfathomable.
He rested the ax on the dirt, blade down, brushing at the sweat that already beaded on his forehead. I noticed his center of gravity was more off than usual; he was favoring his bad leg. The way he accepted that less-than-perfect part of himself was something I’d admired from the first time I’d met him.
“You want me to take over?”
Without hesitation, he extended the hatchet to me. “You kidding? I was hoping you’d offer three swings ago. Not exactly my forte,” he said, with no trace of embarrassment.
I accepted the tool, and lined up to swing.
Arc: 150 degrees.
Velocity: 90 mph.
Metal hit wood with precision and force, cleaving the log into two perfect halves.
Lucas whistled. “From now on, you’re in charge of firewood.”
Worked for me. Since angst was in my repertoire of android emotions, bludgeoning the wood provided a satisfying outlet. Even though I’d enjoyed Lucas’s company a great deal over the last week and a half, I couldn’t imagine living up here permanently without going stir-crazy. Between Holland and the V.O., I’d experienced more than enough confinement in my short lifetime.
I rolled that last word around in my head. Lifetime. Did the fact that I clung to such words mean I still hadn’t accepted my not-quite-human reality? I didn’t think so. It was just—my reality wasn’t exactly black-and-white. A big part of my history enmeshed with Sarah’s, and she happened to be a real, live human girl.
I’d spent a long time in the beginning fighting to be one thing or the other: human or android. That had been an exercise in futility.
I was human. I was android. I was neither. I was both. In the long run, what difference did the label make? I was simply . . . me.
Air whistled when I swung the hatchet again.
“Tim is six years older than me. For a long time growing up, he was the golden child. First in his class, star on the soccer team. When I was younger, he was my hero. I wanted to be just like him.”
Lucas’s voice sounded wistful. I paused, studying his expression. Nostalgic, I finally decided.
“And then what?” I said, when he continued to gaze right through me. I choked down a sudden knot of envy for those good memories he was clearly reliving.
I’d give anything to have an actual childhood to look back on. But at least I had fragments of Sarah’s, and that was something.
He busied himself lining up the next chunk of wood for me. “He started to fall apart in college. The usual story—smart, sheltered kid from a smallish town gets a taste of freedom and goes wild.”
He stepped away, giving me space to swing.
“Except—our family life, it wasn’t exactly the white-picket-fence affair that my parents would have others believe. My dad could be harsh. I don’t know, maybe it’s because my mom grew up with a brother like Holland—maybe that’s just what she was used to. Dad really zeroed in on my brother in a way that he didn’t on me. For that, I’ll be forever grateful. I’m not saying he’s directly responsible for Tim getting involved in drugs, because we always have choices, right? But my brother didn’t really learn healthy ways to cope, either.”
Choices. We always had choices. How many times had I made the wrong ones in the past? Most recently, I’d allowed Quinn to suppress my emotions . . . or at least, I’d given her permission. Now there was a gap where crucial memories should reside.
I shivered, the shadows in my mind stirring again. Things would improve once Lucas restored the missing pieces. At least then maybe I’d know what had happened to Hunter and his parents. Not to mention Daniel, the man who’d fathered and raised Sarah, and helped my “mother,” Nicole, and Holland to create me.
“So, he got into drugs in college?”
“Yeah, only, my parents didn’t know it at the time. None of us did. He hid it well, but his grades started slipping. Of course, my dad didn’t think to ask why or if anything was wrong. All he did