The Last Words We Write

Your chance to let go of the past for a better future. The message scrolls in an endless loop above the town square. I watch it from my window. Lottery Day again. Beneath the words, an image shows a smiling man and woman working at The Center for Cognitive Realignment, also known as The Scrub. She’s placing a helmet on a future Unburdened; he fiddles with some machine knobs.

Grabbing my pack, I head for the stairs. I’ve memorized every pit and crack. I skip over them. The walls are plastered with frayed propaganda posters. Start Fresh. Finish Strong. The Past is Poison. They’re so old my eyes slide past them.

I ride the banister down the last flight and spring out the front door of the Warrens. Elias is meeting me at the clock, hands forever frozen at 5:17, in front of the cafe. My heart thuds as I twist the ring on my finger and walk to the square.

The streets are lined with onlookers; the air is electric with anticipation. A few of the fated have already gathered beneath the screen. Waiting. The Administration building looms in the background like a merciless sentinel—the only structure rebuilt after the rebellion.

I arrive at the cafe and take my place beneath the clock. A flock of pigeons scatters. The crowd grows. All eligible men and women must be present in case their name is chosen. I recognize many from work. Almost everyone drinks coffee. The Administration is kind enough to import it for us. They believe it makes us more efficient workers. I don’t buy it, but who cares? I just love coffee.

As the square fills, I glance around for Elias. A siren announces the ten-minute warning. Finally, I see him jogging down the alley between the Scrap Market and Courier Hub. When he arrives, he taps the glass on the clock twice. tink tink. He says it’s for good luck. “Sorry I’m late.” He gives me a peck on the cheek. “Mrs. Tarkington asked me to carry her water upstairs. I couldn’t tell her no.”

Shaking my head, I say, “Kind to a fault.” He shrugs, takes my hand, and leads me to the square.

I turn to him. “So, what will you do if I get picked this year?”

“I’ll make you fall in love with me again, of course. You can’t resist my brains and charm.” His lips curl into a sardonic smirk. “What about you?” he asks. “Will you win me over again?”

“No,” I answer. His smirk flops over. “I’d find someone muscly and dumb.”

Elias laughs, picks me up in a tight embrace, and swings me around, nearly hitting the people nearby. “You would not!”

He puts me down, and I nearly topple over, head still spinning. “You got me,” I say. “I mean, I would miss your snoring and this stupid hat.” I pull the brim over his eyes. “Plus, who would teach me what came before all of this?” I gesture around at the world in general.

We are both laughing when the music starts. A rhythmic bass drum loop, joined by violins. It reminds me of a broken music box—creepily slow and out of tune. As the music plays, three Administration officials enter the stage. One in a black uniform with shiny gold buttons wears sunglasses, though the sky is a veil of grey. Two Greens in military gear flank him. A smattering of claps and cheers echoes through the square, but most of us remain silent. The Administration pretends this is an honor, but it’s nothing but sanctimonious bullshit.

The one in black approaches the podium while the other two stand straight and stiff in the background. “Welcome to your Annual Reset Lottery.”

He says, “your” like it’s our choice.

“Today, one man and one woman will be chosen for Cognitive Realignment—to shed the heavy, rotting skin of yesterday. The past is a parasite living in memories. It consumes thirty percent of your daily caloric output on nothing but ghosts.”

I roll my eyes. “Larger rations and they wouldn’t have to worry as much.” Elias giggles and nods in agreement.

The official continues. “Today, for two of you, the static stops. Let’s see the chosen.”

Elias hums.

The screen goes black, then names flicker across it so fast they’re nothing but a blur. A few beats later, it lands on one. I freeze. My stomach drops. I never thought—“Ivy Durant,” the man in black says into the microphone.

Women shuffle away, relieved. Elias turns to me, his eyes wide, voice trembling as he grabs my shoulders. "I'll come by the cafe every day. I'll hang outside your building. I'll remind you. I promise." Bile rises, burning my throat as I bury my head in Elias’ chest, his arms tightening fiercely around me, clinging as if trying to hold time still.

“Now, the second name,” says the official.

I’m not watching. I don’t care. I just want to feel his arms around me. I wish we could leave.

In the next second, Elias’ arms go limp and fall from my body. I step back and scan his face. His unblinking eyes and chalky white face reveal what I’m about to hear. A cool breeze chills me.

“Elias Clark.”

My head whips toward the screen. There’s no way…but there it is—his name in lights. The promise he made dissolves in the space between us.

“What are the odds?” Elias says with moist eyes and a smile that’s trying too hard.

“Impossible,” I answer. “Well, I guess, not impossible, because here we are. But, unlikely.”

He pulls me into an embrace; I want to crawl inside his skin. His voice cracks. “Wha—what are we going to do?” he asks.

I pull away and say, “Come.” I take his hand, and we head to my flat.

We enter, and I scramble. Pay stubs. Receipts. Ration boxes. I put them on the dining table.

Elias closes the door behind us. “What are you doing?”

As I tear through drawers and cupboards, I say, “Paper. We need paper.”

His brows furrow. “Why?”

I stop, grab his hands. “Because we have less than four hours. We’re going to write everything down. Then we’re going to hide them and hope we find them. We’re going to make us remember.”

He pitches in on the search and gestures to my bookshelf.

“Wait!” I dash out the door and tear propaganda posters from the walls. Back inside, I say, “No. Not books. Not yet.”

With paper piled high, I say, “Let’s do this.” Pens in hand, we sit at the table.

My first message is, You hate his tattered blue hat with the brown feathers in the band.

“Hey!” he shouts after seeing my note.

“This is not news. You know I hate your hat.”

“Fine,” he says, then starts writing. I peek over his shoulder. She always wears an ugly plaid jacket.

“Comfort over style, man.” He grins. I laugh.

You love the girl with the flaming red hair. I start a pile for him.

“What was the date we met?” Elias asks.

Taking his hand in mine, I say, “No dates. Places. Feelings. Smells. Anything that will help me remember you.”

He puts pen to paper as I watch. We met at the trading post.

“No. That’s wrong. The cafe. You ordered chicory; I told you it was gross.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Aside from your horrible taste in coffee, you had those bright blue eyes and winning smile. Another bonus, you smelled like old books.”

“That’s what happens working in the archives. Okay. Fine. I believe you.” You met her at the cafe. He puts the note in his pile.

“Now, those are good ideas.” He smells like old books. He likes chicory coffee. I start a pile for myself.

We fill the table with scraps of ourselves.

She drinks her coffee black.

He hums when nervous.

Your secret roof garden.

He traded his bike for the ring. My beautifully twisted copper ring with the green stone. He traded it at the Night Market. I never take it off. I write, You said yes.

Our pile of paper dwindles. Hungry, we eat PB&Js and drink water. A siren sounds. Three hours left. We pause, lock eyes. I breathe deep.

“Do you remember our toilet paper battle?” I ask him.

He chuckles. “Oh my god. Over or under. Every time you left my flat, you changed my t.p. to over.”

I take a bite of my sandwich and, with a full mouth, say, “Because it’s the right way. The only way.”

“You kept that up for weeks.”

I swallow. “Until you succumbed to my will.”

He writes, We fought over how to hang toilet paper. She won.

It’s all so superficial. We need to dig deeper. I tap the pen against my lips and think. Then, You trust him because he smiles with his whole face. Especially his eyes.

When I push my paper over to show him, he flashes me that smile, pearly whites gleaming, eyes shining. Then writes, I trust her because of her brutal honesty.

Two hours left.

Forget the piles. Paper flies, scattering on the tables and across the floor. We keep at it until one piece of paper remains.

Your first date and the peaches. He spent twenty merits for those peaches.

Elias searches for more paper. “Books yet?”

My books are a last resort. Reading is my one love outside of Elias and coffee. I scan the room, then start emptying the cupboards. “Here, come help,” I say. I plop a heap of packaged food into his arms. He dumps them on the coffee table. We sit on the couch. I take a can of soup and scrawl on the label, He owes you some canned food. I give him a crooked grin and kiss him on the cheek.

He leans into me, returning the kiss, lingering and warm, while gently easing me back. His hands run through my curly hair. As much as I want him to keep going, I stop and sit up.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asks.

Tears fight to spill. “There’s no time.”

He takes my hands in his and locks his eyes with mine. “But what if this is the last time?”

“Then we won’t know any different.”

He puts his arm around me, pulls me next to him, and we let the moment hang, silence speaking for us.

Siren. One hour left.

My head spins, and an ache shoots from my chest to my throat. “Okay. In reality, we only have about thirty minutes. You need time to get home and hide your notes in case they sweep.”

We write faster, messier, more frantic.

Corn. You love the man who taps the clock glass twice for luck.

Rice. She’s always reading.

Lentils. His name is Elias.

Olives. Her eyes are green like malachite.

“What’s malachite?” I ask, peeking over his shoulder.

“It’s a beautiful mineral I read about at work. Ancient civilizations thought it brought them luck.” Despite feeling a bit deranged, I smile. On a cereal box, He loves talking about the old world.

“Did you make a note about that summer?”

He frowns. “What summer?”

Panic climbs my throat. “The meadow. The bunny. You seriously don’t remember?”

He hesitates. Thinking. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

After a while longer, he pauses and places his head in his hands. “I can’t think of anything else.”

“We have a lot,” I say, rubbing his back.

“What if it’s not enough?” He meets my gaze. My heart hammers in my chest. Out of grief. Out of empathy. Mostly because I love him.

I stand up and grab a satchel from my closet. “Let’s get you packed.” Together, we pack every memory meant for him inside the bag.

“Wait!” he cries. “We forgot about our search for the perfect pear. That night we splurged on wine. Did we even write your name?”

Then I remember something else. “Oh no. What about the night the clock stopped?”

He drops the satchel. “No. We still can.”

I shake my head. “No. We’ll remember. You have to go, Elias. You have to go now, or you won’t have time.” I throw my arms around him. I want to feel his body next to mine. Take in his scent. Feel his breath caress my cheek. We kiss again, desperate and profound. Then, with tears streaming down our faces, Elias walks out the door.

I give myself a moment, but that’s all. The food items I hide in the back of the cupboard. Combing through my notes, I find the one about the secret garden and put it inside the book on my nightstand, sure I’ll still like to read.

I hide half my memories under a creaky floorboard.

What do I do with the rest? I think for a moment, then grab a flashlight out of my closet. I toss out the batteries, roll up my remaining notes, and put them in. On the roof, I dig a hole in one of my planters, next to the sage. A pigeon lands on the wood and supervises. I place the flashlight inside the hole. Before covering it with soil, I promise myself I’ll find it. I rummage around my makeshift greenhouse until I find a sparkly white rock I’ve had since before the rebellion. I place it over where the flashlight is buried.

Back in my flat, I rip off some toilet paper and write. Locate your secret and the sparkly stone. Lift it, dig, and see what’s unknown. I crumple it up and put it in the pocket of my plaid jacket.

The final siren blares through town. The Greens will be here soon. Scanning around, I ensure everything is in place, then sit down and wait.

The Center for Cognitive Realignment smells like antiseptic and old metal. The receptionist checks my name against a clipboard, then I’m ushered into another room. Elias is there. I sit close to him, and we lock pinkies.

“I love you,” he whispers, leaning toward me, just until our shoulders touch.

“Love you back.” My eyes threaten tears, but I fight them.

A young woman, not much older than me, with a too-wide smile, enters. “Ivy?” I stand and take a final inventory of Elias’ face. His shoulders slump, and though his lids are heavy and eyes glossy, he gives me that smile I love before I depart.

She seats me in a chair and places a helmet on my head; the plastic smile never leaves her face. Then she attaches the helmet to the Scrub machine with silver and copper wires. “Jewelry must be removed.” She points to my ring.

I hesitate. Twist it around my finger once. “I’ll get it back?”

She smiles. “It will be back in place when you wake.”

I slip it off and hand it to her. She reclines me back about forty-five degrees and says, “It will only take a moment, and you’ll feel no pain. You’ll wake up at home, static-free and ready for work.”

I nod, close my eyes, and have one more thought. Don’t forget him.

A machine hums; all goes black.

My alarm dings at 6:00 a.m. I know I’m home, but I don’t recognize it right away. A book sits on my nightstand. There’s a couch, coffee table, and two boxes of rations on my kitchen table. A plaid jacket hangs over one of the chairs.

My shift at the cafe starts at 7:30, and I feel eager to get there. But first, breakfast. I rifle through the rations. No breakfast food. I open a cupboard and rummage. Oatmeal. I pull it out; that’s when I see it—something scribbled on the box behind it. He loves talking about the old world.

My handwriting. Weird. I don’t remember writing that.

While cleaning up, I notice a ring on my finger. Copper with a green stone. Beautiful.

After finishing in the bathroom, I dress and grab the plaid jacket. As I’m putting the book from my nightstand in my pack, a slip of paper floats out. Your secret roof garden. What the heck? I’m interested, but if I investigate now, I’ll be late for work. I slip it back in the book and head out.

The staircase is partially collapsed, but I navigate it with ease. For some reason, I decide to ride the banister down the last flight of stairs.

The clock outside the cafe still reads 5:17. My gaze lingers on it, though I’m not sure why. As I’m about to enter work, I hear a tink tink. My chest tightens. That sound. A young man wearing an ugly blue hat stands under the clock.

I approach him and ask, “Why do you do that?”

He smiles, his whole face beaming, eyes gleaming. “Honestly…,” he says, “I have no idea.”

I look back at the clock, then to him and say, “My name’s Ivy.”

He hesitates, cocks his head, and searches my face, maybe even my hair, as if they are familiar. “Hi, Ivy,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Elias.”