The Glitch in Sleep (13 page)
“That’s wonderful,” replied Irina. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Is everything ready for tomorrow?”
“All ready. The balloons are up and the cake is in the fridge. Pyotr’s coming and he says he’s even going to dress up like a clown.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t scare anyone.”
They both laughed at the thought of her brother with greasepaint on his face.
“Well, don’t tell Katrina I’m coming, because I want it to be a surprise.”
“Are you sure? I don’t you want you driving if you’re overtired.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get at least six hours of sleep before I hit the road.” The salesman needed it too, because he had eight more hours to go to make the trip home. “Wait till she sees what I got for her.”
At the foot of the bed was a big box wrapped in white paper, with a pink bow taped across the top. It had taken him weeks to find the perfect gift, but it had almost called out to him on the side of the road at a garage sale in Dimitrovgrad.
“Just promise me you’ll get some rest,” implored Irina.
“I promise. You as well.”
“I love you, Anatoly Nikolievich.”
“I love you too, Irinochka.”
As he hung up the phone, the salesman in the small motel smiled at the thought of his little daughter’s face when she opened up the box. No matter what hardships he faced on the road, all that mattered were his precious “girls,” and making it home for Katrina’s sixth birthday meant the world.
Now if he could only get some sleep.
Levent Business District, Istanbul, Turkey
“Yes, Mr. Demirel, I should have the plans for you by the end of the week, and I will certainly fax them over to you. Yes, me too. Thank you, sir.”
Dilara Saffet hung up the phone and shut off the light that illuminated her drafting table, then stepped out onto the busy streets of Istanbul. Cars shared the same roads as pushcarts and carriages, while glittering hotels rose among stone spires and minarets. This was what Dilara loved about this city, the curious blend of old and new, and the ten million people stuck in between.
“Dilara! Dilara! Come! Come!”
The old kerchiefed woman who sold flowers to passersby had become something of a friend to the young architect, and Dilara always made sure to buy at least a tulip from her cart.
“Hello, Mrs. Madakbas. How goes business today?”
“Forget about that. I have something special for you!” The merchant reached into one of her many pockets and pulled out a small piece of blue glass attached to a leather cord. “This will help you find a husband at last!”
Dilara laughed, recognizing the
nazar boncuk
, a local charm that some believed could ward off “evil eyes” and bring about good fortune. Apparently, Mrs. Madakbas thought this might end her terminal singledom and make a good Turkish woman out of her after all.
“I would never argue with you,
babaane!
” Dilara took the charm and put it around her neck. “Because you are always right!”
She kissed the old lady’s fingers, then made her way toward the bus stop. Life was not bad for Dilara by any stretch. She had everything a person could ask for—health, a good family and friends, and a career in the process of taking off. But still, she had never met the right person to share it with.
“I must be happy for what I have,” she told herself when the thoughts came back on lonely afternoons, but she wasn’t getting any younger. And when her parents asked when they would get their long-awaited grandchild, she never quite knew what to say.
Little did Dilara know that Events were conspiring in her favor. She could not see that in her home district of Kadikoy a tiny mouse was crouching in its hole across the street from her apartment. She could not hear the rumble of the truck that, several hours from now, would cause a loose brick to fall from a neighboring building, which would scare the mouse from its hole, which would frighten the spice peddler’s donkey into knocking over his cart, sending a billow of jasmine tea up into the air. And Dilara could not feel the gust of wind, currently on its way across the desert sands, that would gather that billow and send it cascading up into the window above, where it might awaken her from her afternoon nap and send her outside to see what all the fuss was about.
All across The World, Chains such as these were constantly in motion—the stratagems of multiple departments working hand-in-hand with Case Workers in the Big Building. But one by one, they were slowly unraveling, for each had a weak link within their structure: Sleep . . . that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.
Thus, as Dilara Saffet boarded the bus and headed back to her apartment for lunch and some much needed rest, the chances that she would come outside and “accidentally” bump into Ati the postman were slowly slipping away.
Gandan Monastery, Sühbaatar Province, Outer Mongolia
“Anybody awake?”
The incomparable Li Po stepped up to the top of the bell tower, reading the text message that had just flashed across his Blinker. Down below, the youngest members of the Order practiced their forms and prostrations, completely unaware of the crisis that continued to mount.
“Isn’t every 1?”
he typed back.
With his shaved head and traditional garb, Po may have resembled the countless others who frequented this sanctuary, but he possessed a secret that only thirty-six others shared: though his chosen homeland wouldn’t feel the brunt of the Glitch in Sleep for several more hours, if the situation in The Seems was not brought under control, a Ripple Effect could turn the countryside to chaos.
“R things as bad there as r here?”
came the reply over Fixer-Chat
21
. It was the Octogenarian (username: 80something) from her home in South Africa.
“Not yet,”
texted Numerouno, communicating in the only way his Vow of Silence allowed.
“But will b soon.”
“Told u this was mistake,”
a third username popped into the conversation—“Øhands”—aka No-Hands Phil.
“Not job 4
kids.”
“Not fair,”
defended the Octogenarian.
“Truth hurts.”
Po leaned against a crumbling statue, forever amused by his comrade’s trademark “gruffness.” Po also knew that Phil had enjoyed being “the new kid on the block,” and perhaps his judgment was clouded by a slightly bruised ego.
“What was your score on the Practical, #36?”
typed Fixer Po, waiting for a reply that he knew would never come.
“What was
#37’s?”
Fixer #1 smiled, certain that No-Hands Phil was stewing in his own juices somewhere in the Caribbean, or wherever his boat was moored. But he couldn’t deny that he too had reservations. Though Becker Drane had briefed for him on two separate occasions and always impressed with both his talent and his heart, the rumblings of Po’s 7
th
Sense were truly starting to scare him.
“Give kid chance,”
intervened the Octogenarian.
“He’ll get
job don. : -)”
Li Po was about to agree with her when Phil beat him to the punch.
“He bettr.”
30 Custer Drive, Caledon, Ontario
Half a world away, Anna and Steven Kaley nervously paced around their bright new living room. Though they had been there for over a month, boxes were still half unpacked and painters’ tape lay in bundles on the hardwood floors.
“What do you think we should do?” asked Anna. A glass of Sleepytyme Tea was in her hand, but she was too upset to drink it.
“It’ll pass.” Her husband tried to comfort her. “This always happens to the new kid in town.”
“But I think it’s worse than we know. She’s covering things up, just so we won’t worry.”
Steven leaned over and gave his wife a hug. The job in Toronto had seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime, and though he felt bad about uprooting his family, he had hoped for an easier transition.
“She’s a tough kid, honey. She’ll make it through—”
He stopped in midsentence as the door to the upstairs bedroom swung open and Jennifer came bounding down the stairs.
“Hey . . . have either of you guys seen my silver necklace?”
Jennifer was wearing sweatpants and an extra-large T-shirt—her typical nighttime attire—but she didn’t seem to be tired at all.
“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, young lady?”
“I’m supposed to have traveled the world, but that hasn’t happened yet either.”
“Ha ha,” jibed her dad. “Have you checked in your jewelry box?”
“I would if I could find it.”
“Honey, I think it must be out in the garage,” suggested her mom.
Jennifer rolled her eyes at her parents’ lack of organizational skills, then went out back to take a look. The garage was a disaster area, with boxes stacked from ceiling to floor. One after another she sorted through the crates, and finally found her jewelry box amid the rubble, but there was no sign of her favorite necklace. She did, however, find something else that brought a smile to her face.
“Wow—I forgot about you.”
The first two days of Jennifer’s tenure at Gary Middle School hadn’t been that bad. Sure, it wasn’t easy to leave her friends behind and it was never fun to have the entire class turn and look at you when the teacher announced, “We have a new friend,” but all in all, it seemed like a relatively cool place. Until the morning of the third day.
That was when the whispering started between two other girls in the hall about Jennifer’s “dirty” blond hair and cut-off shorts and anklets that she wore. In Vancouver, this was cool as well as comfortable, but here, people seemed to think it was weird. Though she was certainly thick-skinned enough to take a little razzing, it quickly escalated to something much, much worse.
In the days that followed, the girls
and
the boys began to make fun of her, and even those kids who would not normally bully anyone did so just to fit in with the pack. Lies were spread about why she had left her old school, caricatures drawn on the wooden desks, and several times she was locked in the bathroom, just for fun. Through it all, no one besides the teachers came to her defense.
But that only added fuel to the fire.
Jennifer climbed back onto her bed and opened the little red binder that she had lifted from the box of books. Inside were all of her photos from back in Vancouver—everything from the black-cat cake with the M&M’s eyes that she and her babysitter had baked one Halloween to a shot of her beloved Gram, from whom her mother said she’d gotten her “independence.” Each turn of the page brought a smile to her face, until she found one loose photograph amid the plastic sleeves.
“Hi, you guys.”
It was a picture of her and Solomon and Joely, standing in a field of dandelions at the edge of Johnson’s Park.
“Life sucks here. How’re you doing?”
Solly and Jo were the youngest of seven kids in the Peterson family, who had lived next door to the Kaleys before Jennifer was even born. When she first moved to Caledon, she had been on the phone with them nonstop, but as the days wore on, the calls had become more infrequent, and she couldn’t help but get the feeling that they were starting to drift apart.
“That’s cool. Tell everybody I said hi, okay?”
Jennifer tacked the picture up above her bed and tried to hold on to to the memories as best she could. On that day, they had played in a concrete pipe and pretended it was a submarine, drawing buttons and levers and controls in different colored chalk. But right now, that seemed like a long, long time ago.
She flipped off the light and crawled beneath the covers of her bed. For some reason she hadn’t been able to sleep all night, but what did it matter anyway? When she woke up tomorrow it was going to be more of the same, if not worse.
Jennifer closed her eyes, laid her head down on the pillow, and for the first time since she moved from Vancouver to Caledon, the girl began to cry.
21
. The private communications channel accessible only by active members of the Duty Roster.
Your Worst Nightmare
Dreamatorium, Department of Sleep, The Seems
Back on the Mission, Thibadeau’s tip had led Becker and Simly to the one Bedroom in the department that every Tireless Worker tried to get themselves transferred to. And judging by the way Becker’s 7
th
Sense was tingling, it felt like his old friend had steered him in the right direction.