“Do you know what happens to a living person in the Returns room?”

That’s what his lips are mouthing. And then, when I don’t answer—can’t answer—he adds, “Neither do I,” before he shoves me backward into the blinding white, closes the door, and walks away.

My hand slips from the wall. A now-familiar numbness spreads through me in the memory’s wake.

The Owen in my nightmares is drawn in color and sound, and even when I know I’m dreaming, it feels so unbearably real, here and now and terrifying. But watching us this way, I don’t feel any of the fear. Frustration and anger and regret, maybe, but not fear. This scene is faded and gray like an old movie, so clearly a moment in the past. It doesn’t even feel like my past, but one that belongs to someone else. Someone weaker.

I think of Roland’s offer—of letting the Archive go in and hollow out everything that Owen touched and ruined—and I can’t help but wonder if this is how I’d feel about him after that. If he were only this, a memory in someone else’s life, would he be able to hurt me in my sleep? Or would I be free?

I shove the thought away. I’m not going to run away. That isn’t the way to be free. And I’m never going to let the Archive into my head, when it would be so easy for them to erase more of me. Erase everything.

I need to remember.

NINE

I FETCH THE discarded book from my bedroom floor and manage to finish the reading for my government class as the Thursday morning sun peeks over the horizon. At least it will be fresh in my mind, I reason as I pack up my school bag. As long as I can get through three chapters of lit theory and a section of precalc during lunch, I’ll avoid falling behind on the second day of school.

Dad knocks short and crisp on my door and says, “Up!” and I do my best to sound groggy as I call back and zip my bag closed. I’m halfway through the living room when the TV catches my eyes. It’s that same story. Only this time, in addition to the photo of the trashed room, there’s a title in bold on the bottom of the screen.

Retired Judge Phillip Missing

A photo goes up beside the anchor’s face, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I recognize the room now, because I know the man they’re talking about.

I met him two days ago.

Mr. Phillip likes to keep things neat.

I notice before he even lets me in. His welcome mat is straight, and the planters on the porch are evenly spaced, and when he opens the door I can see the order carrying through into the entryway, where three pairs of shoes are lined up, laces out.

“You must be from Bishop’s,” he says, gesturing to the box tucked under my arm. It has a blue cursive B on the top. Until school starts, Mom has me running deliveries as payment for the new bike. Not that I mind. The fresh air helps me stay awake, and the riding helps me learn the city grid—which isn’t a grid at all here on the edges, but a mess of veering streets and neighborhoods, apartments and parks.

“Yes, sir,” I say, holding out the box. “A dozen chocolate chip.”

He nods and takes the box, patting his back pocket and then frowning a little. “Wallet must be in the kitchen,” he says. “Come on in.”

I hesitate. I was raised not to take candy from strangers or climb into vans or follow older men into their homes, but Mr. Phillip hardly looks threatening. And even if he is, I’m willing to bet I could take him.

I roll my wrist, listening to the bones crack as I cross the threshold. Mr. Phillip is already in the kitchen—which is clean enough to make me think he doesn’t use it—arranging the cookies on a plate. He leans in and inhales, and his eyes turn sad.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Not the same,” he says softly.

He tells me about his wife. She’s dead. He tells me how, before, the house always seemed to smell like cookies. He doesn’t even like to eat them. He just misses the smell. But it’s not the same.

We stand there in this unused kitchen, and I don’t know what to do. Part of me wishes Mr. Phillip had never asked me to come in, because I don’t need his feelings on top of mine. But I’m here now and I might be able to fix him, or at least glue a couple pieces back together. Finally I hold out my hand.

“Give me the box,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Here,” I say, taking the empty container from his hands and dumping the tray of cookies inside. “I’ll be back.”

An hour later I’m there again, and instead of a box I’m holding a Tupperware of cookie dough: about twelve cookies’ worth. I show him how to heat the oven, and I scoop a few clumps of dough onto a sheet and slide the sheet in. I set the timer and tell Mr. Phillip to follow me outside.

“You’ll notice the smell more,” I say, “when you go back in.”

Mr. Phillip seems genuinely touched.

“What’s your name?” he asks as we stand on the porch.

“Mackenzie Bishop,” I say.

“You didn’t have to do this, Mackenzie,” he says.

I shrug. “I know.”

Da wouldn’t like it. He wasn’t a fan of looking back, not when time was still rolling forward, and I know at the end of the day I haven’t done anything but give a man in an empty kitchen a way of clinging to the past. But people like me can reach out and touch memories with only our fingers, so we can’t really fault everyone else for wanting to hold on, too.

The truth is, I get it. If someone could give me back the way our house felt when Ben was home, even a shred of it, I’d give them anything. People are made up of so many small details. Some—like the smell of cookies baking—we can recreate. Or at least try.

The timer goes off inside the house. Mr. Phillip opens the door, takes a deep breath, and smiles. “Perfect.”

Mr. Phillip liked to keep things neat. But on the screen, his apartment is in disarray. The room shown is one I only saw in passing on the way from the entry to the kitchen, an open living room with a wall of windows that look out onto a small, immaculate garden. But now the glass is shattered and the room is trashed, and Mr. Phillip is missing.

I turn the volume up, and the reporter’s voice spills into the living room.

“Well-known civil servant and recently retired judge Gregory Phillip is now considered a missing person, as well as the potential victim of an abduction.”

“Mackenzie,” cuts in Dad, striding through the room. “You’re going to be late.”

I hear the door close after him, but don’t take my eyes from the screen.

“As you can see behind me,” continues the reporter, “this room of his house was found in a state of chaos—paintings ripped from the walls, books strewn across the floor, chairs toppled, windows shattered. Are these the signs of a violent struggle, or a robber trying to cover his tracks?”

The camera cuts to a press conference, where a man with cropped reddish hair and a stern jaw issues a statement. A bar across the bottom of the screen identifies him as Detective Kinney. I wonder if he’s related to Amber.

“There’s no denying the signs of foul play,” says Detective Kinney. His voice is low, gruff. “And at this time, we are treating the case as an abduction.” The camera cuts back to the still frame of the trashed room, but the detective’s voice plays eerily on. “We are investigating all possible leads, and anyone with information should contact—”

I shut the TV off, but Mr. Phillip and the trashed room linger in my mind like echoes. What happened? When did it happen? Was I the last person to see him alive? Should I tell the police? What would I tell them? That I helped the man’s house smell like cookies?

I can’t go to the cops. The last thing I need is more attention. Whatever happened to him, it’s tragic…but it’s got nothing to do with me.

My phone goes off, and I realize I’m still standing in the empty living room, staring at the darkened screen. I dig it out of my bag to find a text from Wesley.