walks to the back of the room and pulls on the rickety ladder. It unfolds from the ceiling. She starts to climb up. But there’s Bradwell at the bottom. “You didn’t come for the meeting, did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“You had no idea what it was about.”
“I have to go,” Pressia says. “It’s later than I thought. I made this promise and—”
“If you knew about the meeting, then what’s in the footlocker?”
She says, “Papers. You know.”
He pinches the frayed cuff of her pants and gives a little tug. “Come and look.”
She gazes up at the trapdoor.
“The latch locks automatically, both ways, once it’s shut,” he says. “You have to wait for Halpern to unlock it anyway. He’s got the only key.” He holds out his hand, offering help, but she ignores it and steps down on her own.
“I don’t have much time,” she says.
“That’s fine.”
There’s no longer a line. Everyone is holding the papers and talking about them in small groups, Gorse among them. He looks at her. She nods, and he nods back. She has to talk to him. He’s standing by the footlocker. She wants to see inside it. She walks up to him.
“Pressia,” he says.
Bradwell is behind her. “You two know each other?”
“We did,” Gorse says.
“You disappeared and you’re still alive,” Pressia says. She can’t hide her amazement.
“Pressia,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone about me. Don’t.”
“I won’t,” she says. “What about—”
He cuts her off. “No,” he says, and she understands Fandra is, in fact, dead. She’s thought that Fandra was dead ever since they disappeared, but she didn’t realize how hopeful she’d become since seeing Gorse that maybe she was alive, that maybe Pressia would see her again.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He shakes his head and changes the subject. “The footlocker,” he says. “Go have a look.”
She steps toward the locker, people on either side of her, shoulder-to-shoulder. She feels shaken. She peers inside. It’s filled with ash-smeared folders. One labeled MAPS . Another labeled MANUSCRIPT . The top folder is opened and inside there are pieces of magazines and newspapers and packages. Pressia doesn’t reach in. She can’t touch them at first. She kneels down and grips the edge of the footlocker. There are images of people so happy they’ve lost weight that they’ve wrapped their stomachs with measuring tapes; dogs in sunglasses and party hats; and cars with huge red bows on their roofs. There are smiling bumblebees, “money-back guarantees,” little furry boxes with jewelry in them. The pictures have some wear and tear. Some have burn holes, blackened edges. Some are fogged gray with ash. But still they’re beautiful. This is what it was like, Pressia thinks. Not all that stuff Bradwell has just told them. This was it. These are pictures. Proof. Real.
She reaches down and touches one. A picture of people wearing glasses with colored lenses in movie theaters. They watch the screens, laughing, and eat from small colorful cardboard bins.
Bradwell says, “It was called 3-D. They watched the flat movie screens but with the glasses on, the world jumped out at them from the screen, like real life.” He picks up the picture and hands it to her.
When she holds it, her hands start to shake. “I just don’t remember it in detail like this. It’s amazing. I mean.” She looks at him. “Why do you say all that other stuff when you’ve got these pictures right here? I mean, look at these.”
“Because what I said was the truth. Shadow History. This isn’t.”
She shakes her head. “You can say what you want. I know what it was like. I have it in my head. It was more like this. I’m sure of it.”
Bradwell laughs.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“I know your type.”
“What?” Pressia says. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re the type who wants it all back the way it once was, the Before. You can’t look back like
“Of course I did.”
“You had no idea what it was about.”
“I have to go,” Pressia says. “It’s later than I thought. I made this promise and—”
“If you knew about the meeting, then what’s in the footlocker?”
She says, “Papers. You know.”
He pinches the frayed cuff of her pants and gives a little tug. “Come and look.”
She gazes up at the trapdoor.
“The latch locks automatically, both ways, once it’s shut,” he says. “You have to wait for Halpern to unlock it anyway. He’s got the only key.” He holds out his hand, offering help, but she ignores it and steps down on her own.
“I don’t have much time,” she says.
“That’s fine.”
There’s no longer a line. Everyone is holding the papers and talking about them in small groups, Gorse among them. He looks at her. She nods, and he nods back. She has to talk to him. He’s standing by the footlocker. She wants to see inside it. She walks up to him.
“Pressia,” he says.
Bradwell is behind her. “You two know each other?”
“We did,” Gorse says.
“You disappeared and you’re still alive,” Pressia says. She can’t hide her amazement.
“Pressia,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone about me. Don’t.”
“I won’t,” she says. “What about—”
He cuts her off. “No,” he says, and she understands Fandra is, in fact, dead. She’s thought that Fandra was dead ever since they disappeared, but she didn’t realize how hopeful she’d become since seeing Gorse that maybe she was alive, that maybe Pressia would see her again.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He shakes his head and changes the subject. “The footlocker,” he says. “Go have a look.”
She steps toward the locker, people on either side of her, shoulder-to-shoulder. She feels shaken. She peers inside. It’s filled with ash-smeared folders. One labeled MAPS . Another labeled MANUSCRIPT . The top folder is opened and inside there are pieces of magazines and newspapers and packages. Pressia doesn’t reach in. She can’t touch them at first. She kneels down and grips the edge of the footlocker. There are images of people so happy they’ve lost weight that they’ve wrapped their stomachs with measuring tapes; dogs in sunglasses and party hats; and cars with huge red bows on their roofs. There are smiling bumblebees, “money-back guarantees,” little furry boxes with jewelry in them. The pictures have some wear and tear. Some have burn holes, blackened edges. Some are fogged gray with ash. But still they’re beautiful. This is what it was like, Pressia thinks. Not all that stuff Bradwell has just told them. This was it. These are pictures. Proof. Real.
She reaches down and touches one. A picture of people wearing glasses with colored lenses in movie theaters. They watch the screens, laughing, and eat from small colorful cardboard bins.
Bradwell says, “It was called 3-D. They watched the flat movie screens but with the glasses on, the world jumped out at them from the screen, like real life.” He picks up the picture and hands it to her.
When she holds it, her hands start to shake. “I just don’t remember it in detail like this. It’s amazing. I mean.” She looks at him. “Why do you say all that other stuff when you’ve got these pictures right here? I mean, look at these.”
“Because what I said was the truth. Shadow History. This isn’t.”
She shakes her head. “You can say what you want. I know what it was like. I have it in my head. It was more like this. I’m sure of it.”
Bradwell laughs.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“I know your type.”
“What?” Pressia says. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re the type who wants it all back the way it once was, the Before. You can’t look back like
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