Ricochet

She hears a voice in the darkness. It's a child and he's playing, changing his pitch and timbre as he speaks each toy's part. The voice is familiar to her. It's Chuck's. And all at once the feeling overcomes her.

She's in the old house again.

When she opens her eyes she sees him there, on the floor in the living room, playing with his old toys. Outside the sun is bright and the living room blazes with its golden light. She smiles at the familiar scene and there's a tug at her heart. It spurs a deep breath and when she takes it the memories triggered by the scent are overwhelming. How had she forgotten all of this? This place, this feeling. This… home.

Tipsy with nostalgia a face pops into her mind, and she glances down the hallway to the first door on the right. It's closed, as usual. She heads for it and Chuck looks up as she strides by. He seems to sense her destination and his eyes widen with concern. The door's closed, they admonish. You're not supposed to go in there.

But she wants to see him again. The way he was before everything happened. When the future still held a measure of hope.

And Chuck's rules certainly didn't apply to her, anyway.

She reaches out and twists the knob, and the door opens with a faint creak. Beyond, in the darkness, she sees the outline of the man she's expecting, his unkempt curls a dead giveaway even in the poor light. He turns at the sound and she smiles, starting forward, when a small hand tugs at her arm.

"No," comes the child's voice from behind her. She ignores it and tries to pull away, her concentration focused on the shadowed visage. But her attempt to move forward is arrested by another sharp tug. "You can't see him! He's gone."

And as she stares ahead the face in the shadows fades, the outline becoming indistinct in the gloom. She scans the room but he's nowhere to be found. It's empty.

Frustrated, she whirls on the owner of the restraining arm, invective on her lips, to find two eyes glaring up at her. Two jade green eyes fixed in a face twisted by fury.

"Eleanor, what…" she begins.

"It was you," Ellie accuses, her tone venomous. "He left because of you."

Unnerved by the virulence, the hate in the stare, she backs away until she runs into the door frame. Ellie advances toward her, eyes boring into hers, the green darkening to black as she nears.

"It was you."

She awakens with a gasp.

Reaching out, she finds the arms of the chair she's still sitting in. Gripping them steadies her and she focuses on calming her breathing. It's mostly quiet in the room, save for the equipment. Her eyes dart quickly to the room's corners. Nothing around her has changed. It's safe.

As she relaxes, Ellie's face comes back to her, the anger still impactful even in memory. She knows it was just her own guilt manifested as her daughter, although the understanding doesn't lessen the hurt. She pushes it down into the place she keeps all her regrets, hoping to be done with it.

But it won't stay there.

The brief visit to what had been has awakened something within her, a spark of protectiveness for a family she'd long since set aside, for their safety as well as her own sanity. And with that awakening she could no longer rationalize that her actions in the past few weeks had been purely in the interests of her work. It was much more than that.

I'm sorry, Ellie. I couldn't do anything then. But I can do this now.

In front of her, the display she'd been staring at is scribing its multiple tracks of irregular mountains and valleys. The scribbles remind her of watching the motion of musicians in an orchestra , a string quartet adding melody to the rhythmic drumming of the respirator. They stitch and it thrums. His chest rises and falls.

She fidgets with the bracelet on her wrist and lets her eyes wander from his face to the cardiac monitor, to the EEG and back to his face. She's stopped anticipating the next breath, fearing it will be the one that doesn't come. She's tuned herself to the pace and it's steady and strong.

Finally she stands, leans over, and tugs gently on the blanket to cover up more of the man's chest.

As she leaves, she pauses in front of the cart bearing the suite of medications. On it is a small wooden box of fine craftsmanship that seems incongruous next to the blandly functional containers beside it. Opening it, she finds a set of glass ampoules arranged neatly in two rows. The inside of the lid is lined with felt, colorfully imprinted with an elaborate design.

When she sees the emblem her eyes flutter and she grabs the cart to steady herself. The convulsions are mild but predictable, and she holds on tightly until the torrent of images subsides. Afterward, she takes a deep breath and peers into the box again. She knows what this illustration is, and she snorts in contempt at the hubris that allowed this telltale to be left in plain sight, putting her entire effort here in jeopardy.

It's the Zamibian national flag, its prominent green 'X' surrounded by quadrants of black, red and gold. And at its very center, the state seal – an ornamental shield flanked by standing gazelles.