Revived

“Why would God tell us to come here?” I ask, feeling the need to cough because of the thick layer of dust in the house.



“He didn’t,” Mason admits. I spin around. Cassie glances up from her tiny computer, then looks down again.



“Mason, what are we doing here?” I ask, starting to get anxious.



“We’re retreating into the shadows,” Mason says. “We’re not sure what happened today—who broke in and why they did it—so we’re taking a step back for a while. We’re going to watch and wait.”



“But… didn’t that directive come from God?”



“No, it came from me,” Mason says, standing tall. “God is acting out of character lately. We don’t know who broke in. It could have been him.”



“WHAT?” I ask. “You think God broke in to our house?”



“It’s possible,” Mason says. “But it’s just as possible that someone completely unassociated with the program did it. That’s why we’re stepping back.”



“And watching,” I say.



“Yes.”



It reminds me of the approach God recommended for Nora. Even if Mason doesn’t, I know how well that worked out.



“So, how are we watching?” I ask.



“Several ways,” Mason says as he removes his computer from its case. “James and David are flying to Omaha as we speak to do a sweep for bugging devices and to conduct a more thorough check for missing items. As you know, I was in a bit of a rush.”



“Speaking of which, where’s my book bag?” I ask. “You got it, right?”



My notes on Case 22 are in my backpack, tucked inside my math textbook.



“I’m sorry, Daisy—I only packed your clothes and your computer. I didn’t get your schoolwork.”



I shake my head at him. “Will you ask someone to send it overnight?”



“You want a government agent to FedEx your backpack?” Mason asks, a smirk on his face.



“Yes,” I say flatly.



“Maybe,” he replies. “We’ll see if one of them can get it out.”



Instead of making a snide remark, I change the subject. “How long are we staying here?” I ask.



“A week,” Mason says. “Probably no more.”



“Probably?” I ask. “What about school? I’ll be held back for all I’ve missed between Audrey and this.” The mention of Audrey’s name slugs me in the side.



Mason pauses and eyes me in a way that makes me nervous. He shifts his shoulders so he’s fully facing me; his expression is somber but sympathetic. It’s the mask you’d wear while breaking the news about Santa’s existence to a hopeful child. I half expect him to crouch down to eye level.



“I wanted to talk to you about that,” he says quietly. And then, he deals me yet another of many blows today: “We’re thinking of homeschooling you for a while.”



Instantly on fire, I open my mouth to protest, but Mason’s phone rings again. He holds up his left index finger—just a minute—while he answers with his right hand. Deflated, I blow out my air and run both hands through my hair, pausing in the middle of the movement to consider ripping some out. I look at Cassie, who’s still typing away. Then I look at Mason, who, seemingly energized by his conversation, is talking loudly, offering opinions, and arguing with animated gestures that the person on the other end of the line can’t even see.



And me?



I stand here in the middle of a strange living room, wishing I could go back two months and start all over again in Omaha.



But would I be able to change anything at all?



When he feels me staring at him, Mason covers the phone with his hand and whispers to me.



“Go start getting settled,” he says. “It’s only temporary, but you can still arrange the bedroom how you like.”



He winks at me then, like this is some big joke. It only makes me more irate; there’s no one to listen to how I feel about homeschooling or safe houses or any of the rest. I storm out of the room. And as I walk down the hallway in search of a bedroom, the kind of pissed that slamming doors and screaming doesn’t even help, I realize that for the first time in my life, I feel like giving my dad the finger.



In the morning, we go out for supplies. Residual anger still stuck in my teeth, I don’t speak to Mason unless I absolutely have to. Instead, I check out our temporary hometown.



As it turns out, there’s nothing nice, appealing, or even remotely interesting about Hayes, Texas. Even in November, it’s hot. It’s small. It makes you feel like you sprinkled dirt on your cereal, then ate more for dessert. Women wearing curlers in public look at us funny at the hardware store. They cluck at Cassie because she’s beautiful and they’re in housecoats. The man at the grocery store asks where we’re headed, as if there’s a NO VACANCY sign at the edge of town and he’d like us to move along as soon as possible.



We do our shopping and return to the house, then Mason and Cassie are back to work. I meander from room to room aimlessly. Helpless. In the kitchen, I sit at the Salvation Army table and stare at the wall over the stove. After a while, I notice the grease splatters. I look at the floor and realize that it’s a different color under the table than in the high-traffic area.



I stand abruptly, mission accepted. I may not be able to control much else, but I can clean. And what I figure out after four hours is that scrubbing floors, washing windows, and—vomit—cleaning toilets has a way of working the fury out of me. When they happen to cross my path, Mason and Cassie look at me like I’ve completely lost it. But as I start tidying the final room, I am completely clear. Without emotion or concern, I mentally outline what I’m going to say to Mason about Case 22 when the notes arrive.



I plan how to convince him to go after God.



Later that night, Cassie spends an hour “fixing” my computer. I know she’s trying to be helpful, but really, I just want her to leave me alone. Now that I’m not mad anymore, and with a plan firmly planted in my head, there’s nothing left to think of but Matt. I want to contact him, but Bot Girl’s taken over my mainframe.



“What are you doing to it?” I ask, leaning over her shoulder as she types code faster than I can speak.



“Making it so no one can track your footprints,” Cassie says. The quiet cadence of the keys tapping under her fingertips is surprisingly calming.



“So I can use it when you’re done?” I fidget a little, considering what to say to Matt.



“Yes,” Cassie says, not looking at me. I move around her and sit on the edge of the creaky bed. From across the room, the glare of the screen bounces off Cassie’s glasses, making her look like she doesn’t have eyes.



I’m startled when she pushes back from the desk.



“All done,” she says in her sweetest accent.



“Thanks,” I say to her back as she leaves.



After she’s gone, I force myself to write a blog post and check in with Megan before I can write to Matt.



When finally—finally—I do, the words pour out of me like they’ve been waiting to hop onto the blank page.



Matt,



Even though it feels like we’re on different planets now, I think of you constantly. I can only hope our orbits cross soon. I miss you like I never thought I could miss anyone.

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