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Back The Progeny Save as PDF
Chapters (50)
  1. Dedication
  2. THE CENTER
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  50. Copyright

“We’ll get you a burka, make this whole anonymity thing a lot easier.”

I exhale a soft, pained laugh. But it’s not my anonymity I’m worried about.

“Whose idea was Maine?” I murmur.

“Yours,” he says, and I can’t help a small smile.

When they call boarding at last, he has to help me up.

By the time we get in line I’m swaying on my feet. His arm tightens around me. A woman behind us offers him a bottle of water. She thinks I’m sick. And I am.

Waiting in our seats on the plane is the worst. He lays his head atop mine, which is resting on his shoulder. I close my eyes and hold his hand.

I want to hold it forever.

I wait for the remaining passengers to straggle on and fumble for overhead space, for the tone to indicate that the door is about to close.

At the last possible second I unbuckle my seat belt and push up unsteadily.

He clutches me. “Where are you going?”

I cup my hand to my face, say I’m going to be sick. It’s not the first time I’ve told that lie.

He reaches for the airsick bag.

“No,” I say urgently. “Not here.”

I hurry past the flight attendants to the galley, grab a stack of napkins. Glance back at Luka’s stricken face.

Throw a last, massive persuasion behind me.

Don’t let that man off the plane.

The next second I’m out the door and sprinting up the jet bridge as fast as I can. Crying.

I’m almost to ground transportation when my phone starts ringing. I ignore it, hail a cab. The phone is relentless.

Finally, I shut it down.

36

I close my eyes in the back of the cab, a tissue shoved up my nose. Head pounding, face swollen—from tears, persuasion. From life.

We drive past a field of windmills, giant turbines blade-silent against the gray sky. I pull the envelope from the waist of my pants, clutch it in my lap, and watch windmill after windmill go by.

It takes everything I have not to reassemble my phone. To call Luka, tell him I love him—again, again, and again. But not to say I’m sorry. I’ve had a shroud of death over my head since the day I was born, but he—he has to live. There are so few things of real beauty in this world. It cannot afford to lose one more.

Nausea and dizziness roll past me, leaving me wasted in their wake. I pull the tissue from my nose, glance at the envelope. Steeling myself, I loosen the tie, take out the stack of papers.