White Read Free Page A

countries, but unless a solution surfaced quickly, the West wouldn’t be far behind.
    They had ten days until the Raison Strain reached full maturity. Symptoms could begin to show among the virus’s first contractors, which included her and Thomas, in five days. According to Monique, they had those five days to acquire an antivirus. Maybe six, seven at most. They were all guessing, of course, but Monique had seemed pretty confident that the virus could be reversed if administered within a day or two, maybe three, of first symptoms.
    Too many maybes.
    Five days. Could she feel any of the symptoms now? She focused on her skin. Nothing. Her joints, fingers, ankles. She moved them all and still felt nothing. Unless the slight tingle she felt on her right calf was a rash.
    Now she was imagining.
    Her mind suddenly swam. Symptom? No, the drug was beginning to kick in.
    â€œI think it’s time,” she said.
    â€œOne second.”
    The doctor fiddled with his machine and finally came over. “You’re feeling tired. Woozy?”
    â€œClose enough.”
    â€œDo you want any local anesthetic?”
    She hadn’t considered that. “Just make the cut small.” She wanted a mark so that if she did wake up in another reality, she would have the proof on her arm.
    â€œLarge enough to bleed,” Bancroft said.
    â€œJust do it.”
    Bancroft wet her right forearm with a cotton ball and then carefully pressed a scalpel against her skin. Sharp pain stabbed up her arm and she winced.
    â€œEasy,” he said. “Finished.”
    He picked up a syringe with some of Thomas’s blood. The sample was small—they would use nearly half with this experiment of theirs.
    â€œIt would have been easier to inject this,” he said.
    â€œWe don’t know if it would work that way. Just do it the way it happened with Monique. We don’t have time to mess around.”
    He lowered the syringe and pushed five or six drops of Thomas’s blood onto her arm. It merged with a tiny bubble of her own blood. The doctor smeared the two together with his gloved finger. For a long moment they both stared at the mixed red stain.
    Their eyes met. Soft pop music played lightly over the speakers—an instrumental version of “Dancing Queen” by Abba. He’d turned the lights even lower than when she’d first entered.
    â€œI hope this works,” she said.
    â€œGo to sleep.”
    Kara closed her eyes again.
    â€œShould I wake you?”
    Thomas had always claimed that an hour sleeping could be a year in a dream. Her crossing to his world would be precipitated by falling asleep here. Her crossing back would be precipitated by dreaming there.
    â€œWake me up in a hour,” she said.

2
    T wo ceremonies characterized the Circle more than any other: the union and the passing. The union was a wedding ceremony. The passing was a funeral. Both were celebrations.
    Tonight, a hundred yards from the camp beside the red pool that had drawn them to this site, Thomas led his tribe in the passing. The tribe consisted of sixty-seven members, including men, women, and children, and they were all here to both mourn and celebrate Elijah’s death.
    They would mourn because, although Elijah had left no blood relatives, the old man had been a delight. His stories at the night campfires had been faithfully attended by half the tribe. Elijah had a way of making the young children howl with laughter while mesmerizing his older listeners with mystery and intrigue. Only Tanis had told such brilliant tales, they all agreed, and that was before the Crossing, long ago.
    There was more about Elijah to like than his stories, of course: his love of children, his fascination with Elyon, his words of comfort in times when the Horde’s pursuit became more stressful than any of them could bear.
    But they also celebrated Elijah’s passing as they would celebrate anyone’s passing. Elijah was now