Unwind: Parts 3–4

In 2003 the authorities agreed to exhume around 30 bodies from a cemetery used by maternity hospital number 6.

A senior British forensic pathologist says he is very concerned to see bodies in pieces—as that is not standard postmortem practice. It could possibly be a result of harvesting stem cells from bone marrow.

Eye-high shrubs and a smattering of trees. Some of the growth is evergreen, some of it yellow, turning brown.

“You got a problem with the way I talk? You got a problem with an Old World Umber patois?”

The woman turns to look across the store, and the moment she does, Cy picks a dangling gold bauble from the glittering tree and slips it into his coat pocket.

Lev crosses through a hedge, steps down into the sand that surrounds the playground, and circles the apparatus until CyFi comes into view.

The Old Umber lilt is back in his voice.

Lev twists the bracelet so a diamond refracts a sparkle of light right into CyFi’s eye.

“He’s got this urge about him to grab things—like an addiction, y’know? Shiny things mostly. It’s not like he really wants them, it’s just that he kind of needs to snap ’em up. I figure he’s a kleptomaniac. That means...ah, hell, you know what it means.”

Finally, they’re dumped in a huge, empty warehouse in a thundering air-traffic zone. Cheap realty for hiding unwanted kids. It’s a spartan building with a corrugated steel roof that shakes so badly when a plane passes overhead, she half expects it to collapse.

Everyone calls them “the Fatigues”—not just
 because they have a penchant toward khaki military clothing, but also because they always seem exhausted.

Everyone calls them “the Fatigues”—not just
 because they have a penchant toward khaki military clothing, but also because they always seem exhausted.

Risa wonders if the Fatigues have lives separate and apart from saving Unwinds, or if this endeavor is their life’s work.

The Fatigue had been almost rote in her answer—like giving a sound bite to a reporter.

He’d held his temper—he hadn’t done anything too impulsive or irrational.

“Like the kids who eat first are the ones who spend the most time with Roland—but he never goes to the front of the line himself. Like the way his closest friends infiltrate the other cliques and get them arguing so they break apart. Like the way Roland is especially nice to the kids that everyone else feels sorry for—but only until nobody feels sorry for them anymore. Then he uses them.”

It’s not the overt bullying that does it, either. It’s the subtle manipulation of the situation. The bullying almost acts as cover for what's really going on.

Tonight, with everyone clamoring for their holiday hash, there’s no one at the bathroom at all, so, putting her hunger on hold, she moves away from the crowd and across the warehouse toward the bathroom.

She turns and must stifle a gasp.

That’s when the door swings open, and over Roland’s massive shoulder Risa sees Connor standing at the threshold, eyes blazing.

It’s as if Roland thinks his attack on her could be wiped away by feigning remorse—not because he’s actually sorry for what he did, but because it serves Roland’s needs to treat her well now.

The soul would be considered human remains; and although it is not specifically stated on the policy page, human souls are still not allowed to be listed on eBay. Your auction was removed appropriately and will not be reinstated.

And the way he moves, even the way he holds himself, is refined and graceful, deliberate and delicate, like he’s lived his life as a prince and is now pretending to be the pauper.

He wears a puffy white coat, but it’s a bit dirty. Maybe he’s the pauper after all.

His eyes are on it, but his mind is keeping track of the kid as he meanders through the shop, looking at things, like he might want to buy something.

The pawnbroker sighs. The kid’s just ordinary after all, just a little more naive than the other kids who show up here trying to hock their baseball card collections or whatever.

“We loan money, and take objects of value as collateral,” he tells the kid.

First of all, runaway Unwinds who show up at his shop never admit it. Secondly, they always appear desperate and angry, and the stuff they have to sell is shoddy at best.

“Get off me! I don’t need your stinkin’ help.” The kid storms away. Connor shakes his head. Was he ever that belligerent?

Asking it is the great taboo among those marked for unwinding. It’s what everyone thinks about, but no one ever dares to ask out loud.

If there’s one thing that Connor can’t abide, it’s an Unwind who defends unwinding.

This is not a good place to be alone with your thoughts. Perhaps that’s why Hayden feels compelled to talk.

The details are different, of course, as are the players, but the gist is the same.

Risa has gotten to know an overweight girl prone to tears, a girl wound up from a week of nicotine withdrawal, and a girl who was a ward of the state, just like her and also just like Risa, an unwitting victim of budget cuts.

They even all have the same last name, and she silently curses whoever it was who determined that they should all be named Ward—as if being one weren't enough of a stigma.

This will be your home until you turn eighteen or we procure a permanent sponsor willing to falsify your identification.

“We are a community here. You will learn the rules and you will follow them, or you will face the consequences, as in any society. This is not a democracy; it is a dictatorship. I am your dictator. This is a matter of necessity. It is the most effective way to keep you hidden, healthy, and whole." Then he gives that smile again. “I like to believe I am a benevolent dictator, but you can make that judgment for yourselves."

He takes a moment to let that last thought sink in, then he returns to his golf cart and is spirited off, with the same cloud of red dust billowing behind him.

It’s not his voice. It’s his vocal chords, but it’s not his voice coming out of them. Same tones, but different inflections. A different accent.

As he walks toward the door, the flagstone path seems to undulate beneath his feet like a fun-house floor.