THE GIRL IN THE GRAY SWEATSHIRT
She’s alone today.
But then, she’s always alone.
My least favorite part of the job is investigation and
reconnaissance. And that’s saying a lot because there’s
so much to hate. Since losing my free will, I count the
days. Minutes. Hours. Seconds. I know precisely how
long I’ve been serving them. There’s no way to be sure
how long it’ll last, though. How long I’ll live.
If I was braver, I’d refuse an order and force
Wedderburn to execute me. That might be an end to
everything. Ironic when—at one time—I only wanted
that. Now that I’ve lost al control, life has become
precious. If I die, I won’t see her again.
I’m not supposed to consider a catalyst’s thoughts and
feelings, except to gauge how close they are to
extremis. Like a good impartial observer, I watch and
wait. It’s taken on a new dimension with her, however.
I recognize the pain of her hunched shoulders; I’ve
been where she is. I tel myself it’s just a job, but I
want to cross the street and have her look at me.
She’s heavy, but it’s not just physical weight. When she
moves, she trudges, shoulders slumped, head down.
From this angle, I can’t see her face, veiled by a curtain
of brown hair. Even if she lifted her chin, she’d stil be
hiding behind thick glasses. I’ve never seen her smile.
It’s become an impossible dream to me, imagining
situations where I could make her laugh.
Wedderburn would kill me; I’m not allowed to reveal
myself until it’s time to offer a deal.
But
I
want
to.
Her steps are aimless; she doesn’t seem to have a
destination in mind. It’s a crisp fal day and she’s
wearing a gray hoodie that would fit a person twice
her size. The sleeves slip down over her hands. They
look small. If we measured, I could wrap my fingers
half again on top of hers. Her pants are just as baggy,
like she wants to disappear inside her clothes. I
remember that feeling so well, wishing invisibility was
real and that nobody would ever look at me again.
I have on a light jacket, a cap pulled down, and
sunglasses. Days like this, I feel like a celebrity hiding
from the paparazzi, but real y, I just have to make sure
one girl doesn’t notice me. It’s not tough, as she barely
glances up when she crosses the street. I’m tense,
watching her. Wedderburn wouldn’t want me to let
her die, especial y due to her own negligence. He has
plans for her.
Somehow she reaches the sidewalk where I’m
standing without getting run over. This feels like a
miracle, considering her distraction. Did I miss
something? What happened? According to my best
estimate, she won’t hit extremis for months. Which
makes this assignment even shittier; I have to watch
her get sadder and sadder, until she feels there’s only
one way out. With every fiber of my being, I want to
step in. To tell her she’s not alone.
But I’m afraid. Wedderburn’s hinted that he has ways
to make me suffer, even after death—it’s not the final
exit I’m betting on. And I can’t take the chance he’s
tel ing the truth.
She passes me without a second look. No surprise, the
decent weather means there’s a fair amount of people
walking, clustered on corners and waiting for signals. I
wait until she’s two hundred feet in front, then I strol
after her. To the casual observer, it seems that she’s
window shopping. She pauses now and then, but I can
tel that she’s not looking at anything on display.
Instead she’s tear-blind, surreptitiously wiping her
cheeks with bare fingertips. Either she doesn’t have
any tissues or she feels like digging them out would be
an admission of weakness.
Why are you crying? Would you tel me if I could tap
you on the shoulder like a normal guy and ask, “Are
you okay?” Probably not. From what I’ve gleaned
about her character, she’d get embarrassed and run.
Then an idea occurs to me. Wedderburn wil punish
me if he
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