82

Oliver Bowen

January 12, 2048. Washington, D.C.

In the end, Oliver suggested he and Vanessa go for a walk. Oliver was a nonperson, so meeting at a coffee shop or restaurant carried risk, and he felt uncomfortable suggesting they meet in his apartment. So they met near his apartment and circled the block, their chins tucked against a chilly wind.

They caught each other up on their lives. Oliver told her what it had been like to be in Australia when the war broke out. How he’d be dead if not for Lila.

Vanessa described watching from her bedroom window as the first bombs dropped on D.C., then hiding in her basement, terrified, as the bombers flew overhead, evidently saving their bombs for more densely populated areas.

“I’ve never felt as alone as I felt in that basement,” Vanessa said. “Most of the time, I’m happy on my own. I enjoy my own company; I thrive in the silence. But when you’re terrified, when you’re watching bombs drop on the roofs of your city, suddenly it’s awful to be alone.”

Oliver was surprised by Vanessa’s honesty. It reminded him of the early months of their marriage, when he’d felt closer to her than he’d ever felt to anyone.

“I tried calling my mom, but the phones were out by then. The power was out; I was in the dark. I would have given anything to hear another human voice.” Vanessa’s mother, who’d lived in Albuquerque, died in the war. So did her brother, and an uncle.

A defender came around the corner. Oliver tensed, ever afraid one of them would demand ID and somehow see that his was fake. He and Vanessa pressed close to the wall to give the defender plenty of room to pass. As the thump of the defender’s boots faded, Oliver’s pulse returned to normal.

Vanessa noticed how tense he’d become. “I don’t know how you do it. I could never disappear like you did, and worry all the time about being discovered.”

Oliver shrugged, put on a brave face. “The trick is to hide in plain sight. If you seem to be avoiding them, they get suspicious. I really had no choice; even with Lila’s protection, sooner or later they would have killed me because of who I was.”

“You hated it when they drafted you into the CIA. Do you remember? You absolutely didn’t want to do it.”

Oliver nodded, watched a concrete mixer roll by, driven by a man who must have been ninety.

“But you adapted. You thrived.” After a pause she added, “I didn’t think you would.”

The comment took Oliver by surprise. He nearly stopped walking before regaining his composure. “No?”

She touched his shoulder. “You were such a gentle man; too gentle to fight a war, I thought.” She must have seen something in his expression, because she quickly added, “Don’t get me wrong, I liked that you were gentle—it was one of the reasons I married you. But I confused gentle with weak. You’re not weak.”

“Thank you” was all he could think to say. When he first joined the CIA, he’d been afraid he was too weak. He wouldn’t necessarily have used that word, but that was the crux of it. Over the years those fears had vanished. Still, it did his heart good to hear Vanessa say she didn’t think he was weak.

“We probably should have done this a long time ago,” Vanessa said. “Get things right with each other. Lots of divorced people reconnect and become friends after some time passes.” She glanced at him, smiled. “We shouldn’t have waited twenty years.”

Oliver nodded. His throat had tightened; he didn’t trust himself to speak, but he was afraid Vanessa hadn’t seen him nod, and he didn’t want her to think he didn’t agree with what she’d just said. So he added, “I missed you,” almost choking on the last word.

Vanessa studied his profile. Oliver kept his head down, face forward, not wanting her to see how choked up he was.

“I missed you, too.”

How long had he imagined taking this walk, having this conversation? He felt … he couldn’t put it into words. His senses felt sharpened; he felt lighter than he had in ages. The wars hadn’t made Vanessa sour and brittle, or depressed and anxious, as it had so many people. At her core she was still the same woman. There were wrinkles around her eyes, the softness of middle age showing under her chin, but it was still Vanessa. She’d made it intact through two wars; Oliver wondered how she’d fare in a third.

“I want to tell you something I’m not supposed to tell anyone. But for now, you can’t ask me for details.”

Vanessa swallowed. “This is the thing you talked about on the phone. ‘Ask me again in six months,’ you said.”

Oliver scanned the street, looking for any sign of defenders, or security cameras. It would be too dangerous to go into specifics, but he felt he had to say something, or he would be lying to Vanessa in a very real sense. “There’s another storm coming, Vanessa. Very soon.”

She slowed. She understood exactly what he was saying—Oliver could see it in her reaction. “You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“As bad as the other storms?”

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Just as bad.”

Vanessa took this in, then nodded. “Good to know.”

A few blocks ahead, the row of colorful three-story connected houses ended, replaced by the towering frames of new defender construction, cranes and bulldozers, and piles of rubble—the remains of the human buildings that had been demolished to make room for more defender dwellings. Hopefully, they would never be completed.

“We’d better turn around,” Oliver said.

They headed back the way they’d come.

Vanessa took out her phone, tapped the keys for a moment, then held it up. “I haven’t listened to this in twenty years, but today, I need a laugh.”

Sounding like he was speaking from inside a can, Oliver heard his own quavering voice. “Yes, Vanessa, this is Oliver Bowen? My sister, Leslie Bowen, gave me your number, and I hope you don’t mind my calling you, but—”

As they laughed, Oliver watched for defenders. If a defender happened by and saw two humans laughing as hard as they were, it would raise suspicion.