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Sonia’s whole body shakes, not out of weakness, but out of fury. “What if they made the solution to unwinding disappear because too many people have too much invested in keeping things exactly . . . the way . . . they are.”

Then in the shivering silence that follows, comes a single unpretentious, unassuming voice.Advertisement

“And what if there’s still one organ printer left,” says Grace, “hiding in the corner of an antique shop?”

Sonia’s rage resolves into the most perfect grandmotherly smile.

“And what if there is?”

Epilogue: The Widow Rheinschild

Years before Connor, or Risa, or Lev are even born, Sonia batters the bitter cold of a February day to carry a heavy cardboard box from her car to a storage unit—just one among many anonymous units in a large complex.

Her husband’s funeral was only a week ago, but Sonia’s not the kind of woman to wallow in self-pity for long.

Her storage unit is the largest one offered. Big enough to fit all the furniture, knickknacks, and objects of desire she and her late husband had collected over the years. Truth be told, it was mostly her collection. Janson was not a materialistic man. All he ever wanted was a comfortable chair and a place in history. Well, he was robbed of one and died in the other.

The lock on the unit is covered in frost. Only a week since the movers piled everything in, and already it has the semblance of something ancient. She tries to fit the key into the lock, but her gloves are too thick. In the end she must remove them and bear the cold on her fingers as she inserts the key, turns it, and tugs on the lock.

Everything has been moved to this storage unit. Her house is now empty—but it won’t be for long. It’s been sold to a lovely family, or so she was told by the Realtor. Sonia priced it way under market to make sure it would sell quickly.

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As for all the money that was paid to Janson for the rights to the organ printer, she’s chosen to give the bulk of it to Austin’s friends. They say they’re starting a secret organization to fight unwinding. The Anti-Divisional Underground, or something like that. Well, if they can use that money to save as much as a single Unwind from going under the knife, it will be worth it.

With a grunt, Sonia raises the rolling door and is faced with the trappings of her life, everything placed with puzzlelike precision so it all will fit. How odd that the objects of one’s world can all be squeezed into such a compact space. The neutron star of life’s tenure.

Looking on it brings her a moment of despair—but like the snow flurries outside, she doesn’t let it stick. If there’s one lesson she has learned from her late husband, it’s that one cannot let the events of one’s past murder one’s future. And future is all that Sonia has now that her past has been so effectively erased. She actually had to purchase a counterfeit passport and driver’s license, since her real ones were now invalid. She kept her first name, though, choosing to maintain a shred of her identity to spite those who would happily send her sailing into nameless oblivion.

While not bound for oblivion, Sonia is leaving, however. She doesn’t care where—but when purchasing an airline ticket one must have a destination—so before the movers came, she had gone to the globe in Janson’s study. She spun it, closed her eyes, and jabbed her finger at it. Her finger came down in the Mediterranean, on the island of Crete, so that is where she will go. She speaks no Greek, but she will learn, and the island will be the alpha and omega of her life for a good long while.

She searches the jam-packed storage space for a safe spot to leave the heavy box she carries. Its contents are too sensitive to have allowed the movers to handle. This is something she wanted to do for herself. Janson would be glad that she’s doing it, too. She can feel him smiling at her the way he did on that wonderful night of giddy fantasy, when they ate the city’s most expensive meal, drank champagne, and dared to dream that they were moving from the darkness back into the light.

Sonia is wise enough to know that she’s moved through times of light and darkness all of her life. Now is a time of intense darkness—but she cannot let it consume her, as it consumed Janson. In time, perhaps she’ll find herself in a place of light again with the courage and resolve enough to take a stand. To rise up and do something about the road to hell their good intentions have paved—or more accurately, the road that others had paved for them. But that’s for a distant tomorrow. For now she’s tired, and broken and just needs to run away.

At last she finds a suitable spot in the storage unit for the box and sets it down gently, making sure it’s in a place where it can’t fall and nothing will fall on it. Then she looks at the stacks of belongings around her.

“So much stuff,” she says aloud. She could open up an antique shop with all the junk she’s collected! If she ever does come back to the States someday, perhaps she will.

Satisfied, she wends her way to the entrance of the unit, pulls down the rolling door, and locks away her old life for ten, maybe twenty years.

As she drives away, she’s surprised to find herself smiling in spite of everything. Yes, the very organization Janson founded ultimately turned on them to destroy their lives and tried to destroy every last glimmer of hope.

But that’s where they failed.

Hope can be bruised and battered. It can be forced underground and even rendered unconscious, but hope cannot be killed. The blueprints to the organ printer are gone. So are all the large prototypes. Smashed and melted and buried in some unmarked grave of scuttled technology.

But no one knew about the smaller prototype. The one that gave Austin back his missing fingers—the one that Janson kept hidden in a cardboard box in his study.

Sonia gets on the highway, heading for the airport, and as she does, she turns on the radio, finds a station playing classic rock from her childhood, and she sings along, ignoring the icy winds that rattle the car.

There’s no doubt about it; Janson’s dream is dead . . . but when the time is right and the winds begin to change, even the deadest of dreams can be resurrected. pqdm.com