Genesis. Volume 2

November 25, 1986. Brookfield. Physical therapy office, basement of the neighboring house. 10 a.m. The physical therapy office was in the basement of the neighboring house—there wasn't enough space on the first floor, and the elderly woman who rented it out didn't want "sick people shuffling around above her head." So Lisa went down every Tuesday and Thursday into a damp basement that smelled of bleach, wet plaster, and old towels. She was met by a middle-aged woman with a short haircut and strong hands—hands like a pianist's, but with rough knuckles. "Hello, Mrs. Kowalski," Lisa said as she entered. The door creaked, and paint flakes scattered from the frame. "Hello, dear. Undress." Lisa took off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door. Her right arm was still in a cast—already worn, with small cracks at the wrist and gray streaks from rain. Her left arm was free. She clenched and unclenched her left fingers—habitually, without effort. Then she looked at her right. The cast was supposed to come off in two weeks, but the doctors had warned her: that didn't mean her arm would start working. It meant the hardest part was about to begin. The hardest part always starts when you think it's all behind you. "Sit down," Mrs. Kowalski said, gesturing to the treatment table. Lisa sat. The table was hard, covered in cold leatherette, and she could feel a spring pressing into her thigh. She placed her right arm on the cushion. "Today we'll work on your fingers," the woman said. "It will hurt." "I know." "Knowing and feeling are two different things." She took Lisa's hand—gently, with her fingertips—and began to massage it. Slowly, without jerking. Lisa clenched her teeth. Her jaw tightened until it grated. "Don't hold it in," Mrs. Kowalski said. "Scream if it hurts." "I don't scream." "You will." She pressed on the base of the finger—where the cast ended and the living skin began. Lisa yelped. Short, through her teeth, and the sound came out like a bark. "There," the woman said. "Better than holding it in." "I hate this," Lisa whispered. "I know. That's why I do it." She continued the massage. Her fingers wouldn't obey—they were stiff, cold, foreign. Lisa looked at her hand and didn't recognize it. The same shape, the same lines on the palm, but everything felt alien—as if someone had attached a prosthetic to her wrist. "Move them," Mrs. Kowalski said. "I can't." "You can. You just don't want to." "I want to. But they won't obey." "Then make them." Lisa squeezed her eyes shut. She focused. Imagined her fingers closing—index, middle, ring, all together. Nothing. No movement, no warmth, no pain. Only emptiness—dull as cotton. "I can't..." "Quiet. Don't get distracted." The woman took her wrist, bent her arm at the elbow. Lisa screamed again. Louder than before—her voice cracked on a high note. "Breathe," Mrs. Kowalski said. "Don't hold your breath." "I am breathing..." "Not like that." Lisa exhaled. Inhaled. The pain became more bearable—not weaker, but as if it had moved further away. "Good," the woman said. "Now the fingers." She took each finger individually—thumb, index, middle—and began to bend them. Slowly, until they cracked. The joint clicked, and the sound was dry, mechanical, as if some part inside had broken. Lisa bit her lip. The taste of blood filled her mouth. "Do you have a towel?" she asked. "Why?" "To scream into." Mrs. Kowalski smirked. She handed her a kitchen towel—old, with faded flowers that had once been roses and were now gray smudges. "Here." Lisa took it and clamped it between her teeth. The fabric was rough, smelling of laundry detergent. For the next half hour, she didn't speak. She only screamed into the towel. Sometimes—when it hurt especially badly—she just whimpered quietly, like a puppy. Mrs. Kowalski didn't pay attention. She did her work—methodically, ruthlessly, correctly. The fingers bent, straightened, bent again. "That's it," she said at last. "Enough for today." Lisa pulled the towel from her mouth. It was wet with saliva and tears—she hadn't noticed when she'd started crying. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat on her upper lip. "Same time tomorrow," the woman said. "I'll be here." "I know. You always are." Lisa got dressed. Her left hand trembled as she zipped her jacket. She stepped outside. A fine drizzle was falling—cold, nearly invisible. She tilted her face up to the drops. Cold. Good. The rain washed the salt from her lips. "Where were you?" Max asked when she returned to the headquarters. He stood in the hallway, twirling the lead coin in his fingers. "Physical therapy." "And?" "Alive." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." November 27, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, bathroom. 11 p.m. Max stood under the hot shower and stared at his hands. He did this regularly—every evening, when everyone had gone to their rooms and the bathroom was empty. He'd stand under the water, close his eyes, then open them. Look at his palms, his fingers, the lines that crossed them lengthwise and across. Water ran down his wrists, over his knuckles, over his nails, chewed to the quick. The water was hot—almost scalding. Steam rose, fogging the mirror. Max didn't wipe it. He looked through the cloudy film at his blurred reflection. In Chicago, the knife had gone into Rachel easily. Much more easily than he'd expected. Not like into butter—like into something that offered no resistance at all. He remembered that moment in perfect detail: the handle in his palm, the short push, her surprised look. And in that moment—for a second, for a fraction of a second—he hadn't felt horror or disgust. Relief. As if something inside him, something he hadn't known existed, had finally exhaled. That was the most terrifying part. Max hated that part of himself. He hated that hatred wasn't enough. "Are you okay?" Jenny asked from behind the door. Her voice was muffled. "Yeah," he replied. "You've been in there half an hour." "Tired." "Wash up and come out." He turned off the water. Took a towel, dried his hands—long, thoroughly, as if he could wipe away what was inside. He couldn't. His skin was red from the hot water, but underneath, everything remained. He got dressed and stepped out. Jenny stood in the hallway, leaning her shoulder against the wall. "Everything okay?" she asked. "Everything's fine," he replied. She didn't believe him. But she didn't ask. November 29, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, living room. Day. Emma was rehabilitating her left arm. Her right—with the broken collarbone—would still be in a gentle recovery mode for a long time. The doctor had said: don't lift, don't strain, don't sleep on your left side. Emma listened with half an ear. She'd stopped listening to doctors after Chicago—after one of them had told her she "got off easy." "You're holding it wrong," Liam said, watching her try to zip her jacket. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. "I'm holding it the best I can." "With your left hand, you shouldn't pull—you should hold." "How do you know?" "I had a shoulder injury. In the army." "And did it help?" "Zipped my jacket in three weeks." "I'll do it faster." He smiled. "Wanna bet?" "What's the stake?" "Dinner. You cook." "I can't cook." "You'll learn." She zipped her jacket. With her right hand. The zipper slid into place with a soft click. "Cheater," Liam said. "I'm saving energy." She was learning to do everything with her left. Open doors, hold a mug, brush her teeth. It was clumsy, but each day it got a little better. The mug no longer fell. The toothbrush no longer slipped. The door opened on the third try instead of the fifth. "You're doing great," Liam said one evening. "I'm angry. It helps." He didn't argue. December 1, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, communications room. 8 p.m. Sasha had been sitting at the radio since eight in the evening. They were waiting for news from Elias—he'd promised to make contact a week after their return. A week had passed. The radio was silent. The speaker hissed, crackled, and sometimes spat out fragments of distant voices, but nothing coherent. "Maybe he forgot?" Max asked, passing by. "Elias doesn't forget," Sasha replied. "Or he doesn't want to talk." "Maybe." She turned the tuning dial. Through the noise, fragments of voices broke through—distant, foreign, in different languages. "I hear something," Arthur said, stopping in the doorway. "Interference." "Not interference." He stepped closer. Leaned over the radio, palms flat on the table. "...in Lyon... psychoses... several districts... people not leaving their homes..." The voice cut off. Sasha caught the frequency again—her fingers turning the dial quickly, confidently. "...in Brittany... three villages... stood in a stupor for a week... couldn't enter... police..." "What does 'couldn't enter' mean?" Max asked. "I don't know," Sasha replied. "But this isn't the first case." "When was the first?" "A month ago. In Brussels." "And now?" "The channel went silent." She turned off the radio. A click—and the hissing stopped. "Why did you turn it off?" Arthur asked. "Because there's nothing more to hear." "What if there's something important?" "Then we'll know." She stood and left. Her footsteps faded down the hallway. Arthur, Max, and Lisa remained in the room. "She knows something," Max said. "She does," Lisa replied. "But she's not saying." "Why?" "Because she's Sasha." December 3, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, Lisa's room. 9 a.m. Lisa drew with her left hand. Not circles—just lines. Jagged, nervous, like an electrocardiogram, like a recording of a pulse that quickens and falters. She didn't know what she was drawing. She just moved the pencil across the paper until her hand tired. The sheet was almost black with strokes. "You've changed," Jenny said, looking in from the doorway. "Changed how?" "The drawings are different. Harder." "That's my left hand." "Not just that. You've become harder." Lisa set down the pencil. It rolled across the table and fell to the floor, but she didn't pick it up. "War changes you." "War cripples you." "It's the same thing." Jenny sat on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked. She looked at the drawings scattered across the table. "May I?" she asked. "Go ahead." She picked up a sheet. Ran her finger over the lines—they were deep, the pencil had pressed hard into the paper. "This looks like a map." "Of what?" "I don't know. Roads." "Maybe." Lisa took the drawing back and placed it on the stack—neatly, corner to corner. "Did you sleep?" Jenny asked. "I slept." "You're lying." "A little." She stood and walked to the window. Beyond the glass—a gray sky, wet rooftops, a drainpipe spouting water. "I'm scared," she said. "Of what?" "That my arm will never be the same. That I'll never draw like I used to." She raised her left hand, looked at it. "This one works, but it's not mine. It's foreign." "You'll draw like you do now." "That's not the same." "It's different. Not worse." Lisa didn't answer. December 5, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, basement. 4 p.m. Jack was forging. Not the blank—something new. Lisa had come down for chalk and saw it: a plate lay on the anvil. Thin, even, almost round, with slightly uneven edges, but generally—the right shape. It was still warm and had a bluish tint. "What's that?" she asked, stepping closer. "I don't know," Jack replied. "It came out." He picked up the plate, turned it over. The metal caught the light from the bulb, glinting. "Maybe a plaque. Or a coin." "Too big for a coin." "Then I don't know." He set it back on the anvil. Picked up the hammer, but didn't strike—just held it for a moment, then hung it back on its hook. "Are you going to finish it?" Lisa asked. "No. It's done." "Done for what?" "I don't know. But it's done." He hung the hammer on the hook. Looked at his hands. The calluses had healed—leaving dark, rough skin behind. No bandages. His fingers didn't tremble. "Lisa." "Yeah?" "I remembered something. A little." "What?" She froze, chalk in hand. "What coal smells like. And heat. And metal." He inhaled, as if he could still smell it. "That's good." "I don't know. It just is." She picked up the plate. Warm—from his hands, from the strikes. The metal was smooth, and along the edge ran a barely visible pattern of hammer marks. "I'll keep it," she said. "Why?" "So I remember." He didn't answer. He just nodded. She went back upstairs. Set the plate on the table, next to her sketchbook, next to Elias's tin coin. The plate was warm, the coin cool. "Metal remembers," she wrote. "I remember too. We all remember." She closed her eyes. Outside, darkness was falling. Somewhere in the basement, the hammer began to strike again. Rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat. Or like a countdown to something that was already close.