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With a bitter laugh, Risa realizes that he may get his wish after all. Someday he may see her hands playing in Carnegie Hall. Unfortunately, the rest of Risa won’t be there.
“I was never going to amount to much anyway,” Samson says, “but now, statistically speaking, there’s a better chance that some part of me will go on to greatness somewhere in the world. I’d rather be partly great than entirely useless.”
Just because he’s to be unwound does NOT mean he’s an Unwind.
He wishes he could truly take these wastes-of-life out rather than just taking them down. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so quick to run—and if they did, well, no great loss.
They need to be protected from themselves. They need… they need… they need to be unwound. Yes. That’s the best solution for these two. They’re of no use to anyone in their current state, least of all themselves. It would probably be a relief for them, for now they’re all broken up on the inside.
In a perfect world everything would be either black or white, right or wrong, and everyone would know the difference. But this isn’t a perfect world. The problem is people who think it is.
“You Unwinds are all the same. You think that because no one loves you, then you can’t love anyone.
And he thinks that if his soul had a form, this is what it would be. A baby sleeping in his arms.
She thinks about the days before the Heartland War, when unwanted babies could just be unwanted pregnancies, quickly made to go away. Did the women who made that other choice feel the way she felt now? Relieved and freed from an unwelcome and often unfair responsibility… yet vaguely regretful?
“You can’t change laws without first changing human nature,” one of the nurses often said as she looked out over the crowd of crying infants. Her name was Greta. Whenever she said something like that, there was always another nurse within earshot who was far more accepting of the system and would counter with, “You can’t change human nature without first changing the law.” Nurse Greta wouldn’t argue; she’d just grunt and walk away.
Which was worse, Risa often wondered—to have tens of thousands of babies that no one wanted, or to silently make them go away before they were even born? On different days Risa had different answers.
“But they loved God more than they loved me, and I hate them for it. So I guess that means I’m going to Hell.”
“I’d rather die than get a piece of an Unwind!” Connor yells back.
“Maybe it’s the best answer of all. If more people could admit they really don’t know, maybe there never would have been a Heartland War.”
They all think about that. Hayden is the next to speak. “If I’m unwound,” says Hayden, “I want my eyes to go to a photographer—one who shoots supermodels. That’s what I want these eyes to see.” “My lips’ll go to a rock star,” says Connor. “These legs are definitely going to the Olympics.” “My ears to an orchestra conductor.” “My stomach to a food critic.”
This boy in the corner of his head doesn’t talk to him in words. He feels. He emotes. He doesn’t understand that he’s only a part of another kid. It’s like how in a dream you know some things, and other things you should know, but you don’t. This kid—he knows where he is, but he doesn’t know he’s not all here. He doesn’t know he’s part of someone else now. He keeps looking for things in Cyrus’s head that just aren’t there. Memories. Connections. He keeps looking for words, but Cyrus’s brain codes words differently.
He’s become like that briefcase in the ground—full of gems yet void of light, so nothing sparkles, nothing shines.
You see, a conflict always begins with an issue—a difference of opinion, an argument. But by the time it turns into a war, the issue doesn’t matter anymore, because now it’s about one thing and one thing only: how much each side hates the other.”
everyone was selecting their leaders not by their ability to lead, but by where they stood on this single issue.
For your ease and peace of mind, there are a variety of harvest camps to choose from. Each facility is privately owned, state licensed, and federally funded by your tax dollars. Regardless of the site you choose, you can feel confident that your Unwind will receive the finest possible care from our board-certified staff as they make their transition to a divided state. —From The Parents’ Unwinding Handbook
Even now, at the end of her life, she still has to face that inevitable question, What good are you?
“It’s your blood type,” the counselor says. “AB negative—it’s rare and in very high demand.” He smiles. “Think of it this way, you’re worth more than any other kid in your unit.”
No one knows how it happens. No one knows how it’s done. The harvesting of Unwinds is a secret medical ritual that stays within the walls of each harvesting clinic in the nation. In this way it is not unlike death itself, for no one knows what mysteries lie beyond those secret doors, either. What does it take to unwind the unwanted? It takes twelve surgeons, in teams of two, rotating in and out as their medical specialty is needed. It takes nine surgical assistants and four nurses. It takes three hours.
“Not at all,” she says. “By law, we’re required to keep you conscious through the entire procedure.” The nurse takes his hand. “You have a right to know everything that’s happening to you, every step of the way.”
“What if I don’t want to?” “You will,” says one of the surgical assistants, wiping Roland’s legs down with brown surgical scrub. “Everybody does.”
“You’ll be fully conscious, but you won’t feel a thing.”
The lower half of the table is unhooked and pulled away. It makes him think of when he was twelve and his mom took him to Las Vegas. She had dropped him off at a magic show while she played the slots. The magician had cut a woman in half. Her toes were still wiggling, her face still smiling. The audience gave him thunderous applause.
It’s nothing to worry about.”
I… I… I can’t remember my name, but… but… Right temporal. … but I’m still here. Right frontal. I’m still here… Right occipital. I’m still… Right parietal. I’m… Cerebellum. I’m… Thalamus. I… Hypothalamus. I… Hippocampus. … Medulla. … …
“A human being is part of a whole, called by us the Universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us… Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” —ALBERT E
“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe.” —ALBERT E
“but it’s not your fault you weren’t emotionally prepared for life out there in the real world. That was my fault—and the fault of everyone who raised you to be a tithe. We’re as guilty as the people who pumped that poison into your blood.”
The thought of Pastor Dan being anything but Pastor Dan throws Lev for a loop. “You… you lost your faith?” “No,” he says, “just my convictions. I still very much believe in God—just not a god who condones human tithing.” Lev begins to feel himself choking up with an unexpected flood of feeling, all the emotions that had been building up throughout their talk—throughout the weeks—arriving all at once, like a sonic boom. “I never knew that was a choice.” All his life there was only one thing Lev was allowed to believe. It had surrounded him, cocooned him, constricted him with the same stifling
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“Let me see,” says the Admiral. The man holds out his hand. The Admiral looks it over until he finds a scar between the thumb and forefinger. “I took Harlan fishing when he was nine. He got that scar trying to gut a trout.” And then there’s a voice from behind him—another man, a little bit older than the first. “I remember!” he says. The Admiral smiles. Perhaps the memories are spread out, but they’re here—every one of them.
“Look over there! He fell off that wall when he was—” “—six! Yes—I remember!” “He had to wear a wrist brace for months.” “The wrist still hurts when it rains.” “He shouldn’t have climbed the wall.” “I had to—I was being chased by a bull.” “I was so scared!” “The flowers in that field—do you smell them?” “They remind me of that one summer—” “—when my asthma wasn’t so bad—” “—and I felt like I could do anything.” “Anything!” “And the world was just waiting for me!”
He looks at the crowd and says weakly, “H-Harlan?” Every eye in the garden turns toward him. A man raises his hand to his throat, touching it gently, and says in a voice that is most definitely Harlan Dunfee’s, just a bit older, “Dad?”
new arrivals. She smiles at them as they go by and continues to play, making it clear that this furnace of a place, full of planes that cannot fly, is more than it seems. It is a womb of redemption for every Unwind,
