Harmonic Read Free Page A

bookshelves atop long, flat filing cabinets. The reports—formal write-ups of a Walk—are crammed into the bookshelves. The maps for the corresponding worlds are stored underneath, lying flat. You find the map, roll it into a tube, slide it into the carrier, and pull the report. Take the whole pile back to the cleaving team that requested it. As Del would say, data runs suck.
    Juggling the oversize report folders is harder than the maps, but I work as fast as I can, rolling the maps haphazardly and stuffing them into the cylindrical case slung over my shoulder like an archer’s quiver. Voices float from the central part of the room, but they’re not distinct enough to recognize who’s speaking. Rather than find out, I pick up the pace. A few times, I hear footsteps in nearby rows, but I keep my eyes glued to the spines in front of me.
    Like an ostrich, I’m hoping if I don’t see her, she won’t see me.
    In case you weren’t aware: Ostriches are remarkably stupid birds.
    My arms ache from the weight of the reports, but I keep going, trying to finish as quickly as possible. I swing around the corner into the next row, and she’s there.
    Laurel.
    Laurel, curvy and dark-skinned and clear black-brown eyes, like the bottom of a creek bed with water rushing past. Laurel, with hair that corkscrews in every direction and hands that move like birds in flight. Laurel, who smells like summer and stories, even in the dead of winter. Laurel, with her wide smile and dimples, merry or sly depending on her mood, who doesn’t look even a little bit happy to see me.
    The books hit the floor in an earsplitting crash. I yelp, and she winces, her eyebrows drawing down in a scowl as she eyes the wreckage between us.
    â€œSorry!” I kneel and gather up the books. “I didn’t see you.”
    â€œNo kidding,” she says dryly.
    She watches me scrabble about on the floor, then sighs. “Here,” she says, and bends down to help me, her hand brushing against mine as she reaches for a report, smoothing the creased papers. Her nails are electric blue, so glossy they reflect the light. My own are bitten-down and unpolished, dull in comparison.
    The scent of strawberries and warm skin is too bittersweet a reminder, and I jerk back. “I’ve got this.”
    She freezes in place, then draws her hand away with exaggerated care. “Of course you do.”
    She stands up, brushing at her knees, and waits while I finish stacking the books. I can’t find the right words, so I work in silence, feeling the weight of her gaze with every movement. “Since when do you do data runs?” she asks.
    I can’t tell if the words are a challenge or a question.
    â€œI was late.” I stand, the books stacked awkwardly in my arms. “I was supposed to drive my sister to school.”
    â€œSupposed to?”
    She flaked out. I press my lips together, forcing the words back. We can’t all go spilling our secrets, the way Del did. She told Simon about the Walkers and look how that turned out. Laurel knows me too well as it is, even now, after everything. After doors were slammed shut so hard they couldn’t possibly open again. “She wasn’t up to it. By the time I got in, my team had left for the day.”
    â€œSo you decided to visit the Archives?” She’s skeptical, and for good reason. It’s been six months since I came up here.
    â€œOnly because Lockport sent me,” I say, so defensive it sounds like an excuse.
    Which it is.
    She draws back as if stung. “Better get back to it, then. Don’t want to keep Lockport waiting.”
    She heads to her desk without another word, and I can do nothing but watch her go.
    There are two sides to every story; two worlds from every choice. But the past is a singular thing. A clear path from what was to what is. What Laurel and I were . . . isn’t anymore.
    Laurel’s interpretation is