By the time I wake up, the house is quiet.
Everyone’s gone.
thirty-nine
As I crunch through a bowl of old-people cereal, I grow increasingly anxious about Mason’s trip to Washington. I drum my fingers on the table as I consider the possible outcomes.
Worst case, God will be found guilty of heinous crimes, no one will want to step in to run a dysfunctional program already in progress, and the world as I know it will crumble. The God Project will die; Revive will be the basis for a study with new, willing participants. Disgruntled bus kids will speak out; newspapers will accuse the government of hiding a superdrug; the government will lie about the drug’s existence. Revive will become nothing but a myth; no one will have access.
Not even me.
And with no program to keep us together, what will become of me and Megan? Or of me and Mason, for that matter? Where will I live?
Shaking off thoughts of homelessness, I consider the more positive scenario.
Best case, God’s actions will be easily explained and the program will continue as it has been. The rest of the bus kids and I will remain in the God Project for another nineteen years, after which point—assuming there have been no major issues—the FDA will approve Revive and make it available on a very small, controlled scale, probably first to the military. Carefully and quietly, it will trickle out to the public, and new lives will be saved.
Except I can’t shake the feeling that the best case isn’t that great. The past few months have been eye-opening for me; knowing what I do now about the program, will it ever really be the same? When I look through the files of those who didn’t respond to Revive, will I dwell on the fact that they weren’t given other lifesaving measures? When I visit Gavin in New York, will I be able to love his parents as much knowing that they took him from his birth mother? When I think of Audrey, will I always feel that I kept something monumental from her?
When I look into Matt’s eyes, will I ever feel like he’s safe?
With no right answer to comfort me, I shiver in my sleep shirt despite it being hot here in Hell, Texas. I get up, rinse my bowl in the sink, and decide to try not to think about Mason’s trip. He’s not even on the plane yet; his meeting’s not until tomorrow. There’s plenty of time to worry about him later.
For now, I choose to focus on Matt.
I check to confirm that he hasn’t responded to my email or text. Then, I dial.
“Hi,” he says, as if he was expecting me.
“Uh, hi,” I say, surprised. I thought my call would go to voice mail; I glance at the clock and realize it’s the beginning of lunch period at school.
We’re both quiet for a minute. I wonder whether he’s thinking of the last time we saw each other, because that’s what I’m thinking about.
“Where are you?” I ask. It’s too quiet in the background.
“In my kitchen,” he says. “Where are you? You haven’t been in school.”
“Texas,” I say.
“What? Why?”
“Long story,” I say. “Something’s going on with the program. I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”
“Fine with me.”
Pause.
“Matt, I wanted…” I stop talking because I’m not sure what I wanted. Instead, I ask, “Did you get my email?”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Text, too.” And then, just when I think he’s going to make an excuse for not writing back, he simply says, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Thanks for doing that thing for Aud, too,” Matt says. “The lyrics.”
“I didn’t really mean to start a trend,” I say. “I wanted to give her something.”