The Mnemosyne Gamble- Chapter Three: Better Days Have Arrived

Rhynar had barely made it through the career expo doors before Gent appeared.

“Rhynar.” She stopped. A tall man with a tablet tucked beneath one arm was walking toward her with the confidence of someone who already knew exactly where she was supposed to be. “Gent,” he said, offering his hand. “Your matriculation attaché.” She smiled as she said, “Right. Hello.” He gestured the way he came. “You’re the last one.” Rhynar glanced at the clock. “I’m early.” He nodded, “Yes.”

Gent turned and began walking. Rhynar hurried after him. He led her through the crowded exhibition hall to a seating area where three people had already gathered around a low table. “These are the other corporate and non-corporate hires assigned to me,” Gent said.

A young woman immediately stood. “Tully.” She said it before Gent could introduce her and offered Rhynar both hands instead of one. Tully was younger than Rhynar by some years, with the open expression of someone who had not yet learned to pretend she wasn't interested in everything around her. “Unincorporated Territory,” Tully added.

Rhynar wasn't sure whether that was an introduction or a warning.

Gent pointed toward the oldest member of the group. “Oren.” He stepped up to introduce himself. “Retired,” Oren said. Rhynar waited, not wanting to speak out of place. “Formerly retired,” he self-corrected. “Retirement didn't agree with him,” Gent explained. "Retirement was fine. The retirement community didn't agree with me.” He said awkwardly. “What was wrong with it?” Tully asked. “Nothing. That was the problem.” Tully considered this very seriously. “I think I understand,” Rhynar said, trying to soothe the moment.

The woman beside him laughed. “Velonna,” she said, extending her hand to Rhynar. Introducing herself, “Education.” She was very well dressed. “She's transitioning into sales,” Gent added. Velonna joked. “Because apparently explaining things to people who don't want to listen is a marketable skill.” Rhynar liked her forwardness. “That actually sounds like excellent preparation,” Rhynar said. Velonna smiled. “See? She understands.”

Gent looked down at his tablet. “Good. Everyone has met. Try not to lose one another.” Then he walked away. The four of them watched him disappear into the crowd. “Is that all?” Rhynar asked. “I think we're good for now,” Tully said. Oren sighed. “Apparently.” Their accommodations were better than Rhynar had imagined. She had expected a dormitory, perhaps a converted hotel. Instead, each of them received a small furnished condo with a kitchen, sitting room, bedroom, and enough storage that Rhynar couldn't imagine what she was supposed to put in all of it.

Tully lasted one night in hers. The following evening, she appeared at Rhynar's door carrying a pillow. Rhynar stared at it. "I don't like my room.” Tully whined. “What's wrong with it?” She asked as if she were babysitting a child who wouldn't eat their vegetables. “Nothing,” Tully answered, looking at the floor. Rhynar waited. Tully shifted the pillow beneath her arm. “It's very quiet at night.” Rhynar laughed before realizing Tully was serious. “You don't like having your own room?” She said, more of a realization than a question. “I've never had one.” Rhynar, who was used to a world of single-child families, wondered, to herself, "Never?" Stopping herself from being rude, she instead said, “Come in.”

Tully came from a large religious family in the Unincorporated Territory. Rhynar had known that much from their introductions, but she hadn't understood what large meant until Tully began listing siblings. Rhynar lost count. “You all lived together?” Tully admitted. “Mostly.” This astonished Rhynar, who replied, “And you liked that?” Tully looked puzzled. “Where else would they live?” Rhynar took an extra blanket from the cupboard in the sitting area to hand to Tully, who was making herself at home on the sofa.

After that, Tully slept at Rhynar's more often than she slept in her own condo.

Rhynar found she didn't mind. She liked hearing about Tully's family and the Unincorporated Territory. Growing up, Rhynar had heard people speak about those places as though civilization gradually faded the farther one traveled from corporate jurisdiction. Tully's stories were considerably less dramatic.

There were gardens and crowded houses. Cousins who lived within walking distance. Religious gatherings that became dinners and dinners that became overnight visits. Acquaintances who wandered freely between relatives' homes because everyone seemed vaguely knowledgeable of everyone else. It sounded exhausting.

Still, Rhynar worried about her. Tully had never lived alone. She had never worked within a major corporate territory. She wasn't accustomed to schedules being measured to the minute or strangers treating efficiency as a moral virtue. Rhynar wondered whether Tully understood how different her life was about to become. Then again, perhaps none of them did.

The expo began the next morning promptly. Rhynar spent the hours before lunch completing assessments designed to verify everything her documents claimed she could do.

Reading comprehension. Mathematics. Technical reasoning. Professional judgment. Situational analysis. By the time she finished, Rhynar felt as though she had taken all her technical school finals again but in a condensed sitting.

Gent collected her paperwork when she emerged. He offered. “Lunch?” She appreciatively said, “Yes.” He went on, “What would you like?” Rhynar looked around. “What are they serving?” He replied, “Whatever you'd like.” She was confused. “No, I mean what's the lunch?” Gent stared at her. “Whatever you'd like.” There was that phrase again. Rhynar looked toward Velonna for help. “He means order something,” Velonna said. Rhynar was still unsure. “Anything?” Velonna reassured her. “Yes.” Rhynar specified. “From where?” Gent looked increasingly confused. “Anywhere that delivers.”

Rhynar had grown up under the Midwestern Dominion philosophy that when someone else provided food, you ate what appeared in front of you and were grateful for it. Apparently that philosophy had not survived the journey east. She hesitated a bit longer than necessary. “A Monte Cristo sandwich.” She blurted out her favorite food. Gent entered it into his tablet. Feeling emboldened, she threw in, "And strawberry chia tea.” Gent chuckled, “Done.” That was it. No sigh. No judgment. No suggestion that tea was already available somewhere and she should simply drink that. Rhynar sat back. She could get used to this.

Across the table, Oren was ordering something elaborate enough to require modifications.

“You've adjusted quickly,” Velonna nudged Oren when he finished. He replied. “I've already wasted several years of my life eating retirement-community chicken.” Rhynar wondered. “You said you weren't there very long.” He snorted. “Long enough.”

Tully was still scrolling through the menu. “There are too many choices.” Oren leaned toward her. “That's what civilization does to you.” He commented. “Stop frightening her,” Velonna warned. Oren chided, “Hey, I'm educating her." Velonna reminded him. "I'm the educator.” Oren dogged her. “Former educator.” Velonna narrowed her eyes. Oren's smile faded; he backed down, knowing he had overstepped.

Rhynar took a sip of her strawberry chia tea when it arrived and found herself smiling too.

The afternoon consisted of meet-and-greets with prospective workplace representatives.

They were interviews, although no one called them that.

Instead, people sat in comfortable chairs and asked Rhynar what interested her, what she wanted from her career, where she imagined herself living, whether she preferred structure or independence, and what sort of work made her feel useful. That last question stayed with her. Rhynar had prepared answers about qualifications. She had not prepared an answer about usefulness.

By dinner, it was over. Gent rounded up his four charges and walked them back toward the lodging complex. “You'll receive your placements tomorrow morning,” he told them. “After that, everyone attends general corporate orientation for one week. Procedures, communication standards, daily operations, workplace expectations. Once you've completed that, you'll move into your individual training programs.”

“How long?” Tully asked. “Depends on your placement,” Gent explained as only he could, both helpfully and curtly as well. “And then we leave?” Tully asked with a hint of worry. Gent, not reading her emotion, replied. “Eventually.” Tully frowned. Rhynar noticed.

Velonna and Oren would begin their specialized programs in roughly six weeks. Tully's schedule was similar.

Rhynar's wasn't. Her placement followed an academic calendar. The next program didn't begin until spring. “So what happens to me?” Rhynar asked. “You stay here.” She was taken aback. “Until spring?” Gent once again with his signature ready reply. “Yes.” Rhynar persisted. “In the same condo?” He answered without looking up from his reading. “Yes.” Rhynar stopped walking. Gent took several more steps before realizing she was no longer beside him. “For months?” She once again questioned. “Correct.” She was feeling overwhelmed. “What am I supposed to do?” Gent seemed genuinely perplexed by the question. “Whatever you'd like.”

There it was again. Whatever you'd like. The words had sounded indulgent at lunch.

Now they sounded enormous. Rhynar looked around at the unfamiliar city—the lights coming on in windows, transit lines humming beyond the buildings, people moving toward restaurants and apartments and places she had never been. Tully slipped her arm through Rhynar's. “We could go somewhere,” Rhynar asked. “Where?” Tully shrugged. “Anywhere.”

Rhynar looked toward the city again. For most of her life, there had always been somewhere she was supposed to be. Work. Home. An appointment. An obligation. Some task waiting impatiently for the one before it to end.

Now she had months. She had a furnished room. She had nowhere she needed to be that evening. And, somehow, she had acquired three people she hadn't known yesterday. Oren was arguing with Velonna about where they should eat. Tully was already insisting they find somewhere none of them had ever tried. Rhynar followed them. For once, she didn't ask where they were going.

The longer Rhynar stayed, the more she discovered that things were different here.

Mostly, they were better. Gent carried a corporate fob that seemed capable of paying for everything. He tapped it for meals, transportation, lodging, admission fees, and whatever other expenses appeared along the way. Whenever the four of them needed something, Gent simply produced the fob.

The first few times, Rhynar instinctively reached for her own money. “You don't need that,” Gent told her. “Are you sure?” He nodded. “Yes.” Rhynar felt uncomfortable taking something that she hadn't paid for. “Does this come out of something later?” He briskly answered. “No.” She could not get over this new way of doing things. “Is there a fee?” Gent gave her a puzzled look. “For what?” Rhynar wasn't entirely sure.

She was simply accustomed to there being one. The arrangement came as an enormous relief. She had already borrowed more from her mother than she was comfortable with, and asking her father was not an option. Rhynar couldn't imagine a request desperate enough to make him open his wallet on her behalf.

Money itself wasn't radically different here. As it had been at home, prices were expressed relative to an individual's earnings rather than in fixed denominations. Everyday purchases occupied tiny decimal percentages of a paycheck. A pack of gum might cost Rhynar 0.3 percent, for example. Larger obligations were calculated against projected annual income. At her current earning level, an ordinary housing payment might represent roughly twenty-two percent.

The number was relative to the person. A cup of tea might therefore display a slightly different percentage to Rhynar than it did to Gent. The object had not changed. Its burden had. Rhynar had never thought that particularly strange. Money had always worked that way.

What was strange was how rarely anyone here seemed determined to take hers. Her accommodations were another surprise. They were comfortable without being luxurious, thoughtfully furnished rather than stripped down to whatever could survive repeated occupants. There were lamps where a person might actually want a lamp. The sofa was comfortable enough to sit on for more than twenty minutes. The kitchen contained things she hadn't realized temporary kitchens were allowed to contain.

None of it was extravagant. That was almost what made it remarkable.

Someone had considered the possibility that a person staying there might want to enjoy being there. It reminded Rhynar of how different things had been when she first left school.

Back then, there had been the matter of paying your dues. The phrase sounded almost noble when people said it quickly.

In practice, there were two ways to pay. Families with enough standing could pay the placement fee and move their newly educated child directly into suitable work. Everyone else was assigned to a mentor in an internship, and remained under that person's authority until the mentor provided a recommendation allowing them to begin the career they had supposedly already trained for.

Rhynar's family had not paid. Some families couldn't. They tended to have poor work histories themselves and simply lacked the percentage to spare. Others could have paid but chose not to, particularly when the new graduate had become the family's designated screwup.

Rhynar hadn't thought she belonged to either category. She had been a good student. She showed up when she was supposed to. She worked hard. She stayed out of trouble. She tried, with varying degrees of success, to be a decent person.

None of that exempted her. So she paid her dues with labor. The people alongside her were an unpredictable collection of young workers, many of whom had already accumulated disciplinary problems or brushes with criminality. Arguments were common. So was intimidation. Simple tasks somehow became confrontations.

Rhynar spent much of that period simultaneously frightened and irritated. She had done everything people told her she was supposed to do. Yet somehow she had ended up performing degrading manual work while waiting for another person to decide she had sufficiently demonstrated her worthiness to begin the life she had already prepared for.

That was one of the things that had originally brought her and Rollo together.

Rollo had been the black sheep of his own family, and they hadn't paid his placement fee either. He had gone through the labor route just as Rhynar had. Unlike Rhynar, he escaped quickly.

Rollo could make a friend in a locked room. He learned names, remembered favors, joined groups, found connections between people who didn't realize they had anything in common, and somehow made himself useful to anyone with the power to recommend him. Before long, someone did.

Later, he used those same instincts to help Rhynar. She needed them.

Her own mentor had discovered that recommendations were an excellent source of leverage. As long as Rhynar needed his approval, there was always another unpleasant job that apparently demonstrated character. Another task no one else wanted. Another reason she wasn't quite ready.

Her dues lasted years. By the time she finally received her recommendation, she had learned far more about enduring humiliation than she had about the career she was supposed to be entering.

Here, no one seemed particularly impressed by suffering. Rhynar found that astonishing.

There were conveniences everywhere, or perhaps more accurately, there was an absence of unnecessary unpleasantness.

Transportation worked. Food appeared without an argument over reimbursement. Temporary housing was comfortable. Small problems were treated as things to solve rather than opportunities to remind someone that life wasn't fair.

Gent seemed amused by her amazement. “I don't matriculate many people from the Midwestern side,” he told her one afternoon. They were waiting for a car, although waiting meant standing outside for perhaps three minutes. “What happens to the ones you do?” He thought for a second before he answered. “They usually react like you.” She wasn't sure what to make of that. “Suspiciously?” She guessed. He shook his head. “Gratefully.” Rhynar considered that. “Maybe both.”

At home, she had always felt nickel-and-dimed. There was a fee for everything. If something appeared complimentary, there was probably a charge attached somewhere she hadn't found yet. Truly free conveniences existed primarily for top-level corporate employees, the sort of people whose salaries made the savings irrelevant anyway. Rhynar had spent years feeling as though she was perpetually a few percentages behind.

She was always running out of money. Always tired. Always solving one problem just in time for another to arrive. She hadn't realized how much energy that consumed until the problems stopped appearing.

There was, however, an unexpected drawback to her new life. People here didn't understand her stories. Once, when explaining why she had been late to something years earlier, Rhynar mentioned having to walk because she'd missed the community trolley.

“Why didn't you call a taxi?” someone asked. “I couldn't afford one.” She explained. They could not understand her. “No, the free one.” Rhynar stared at them. “The what?” They suggested. “The community taxi.” She didn't know those existed. “We didn't have that.”

They gave her the same bewildered expression Rhynar imagined she would have given someone who said their neighborhood didn't have roads.

Another time she described waiting nearly an hour for the trolley. “Why didn't you just call and have them send another one?” Rhynar laughed. Nobody else did. Eventually she learned to tell those stories less often.

It wasn't embarrassment exactly. It was the exhausting difficulty of explaining a hardship to someone who had never encountered the conditions necessary for that hardship to exist.

And gradually Rhynar noticed something else.

People here gave up more easily. Not everyone, certainly, but enough for her to notice.

A disappointing evaluation could ruin someone's entire week. An uncomfortable conversation could make someone abandon a project. People changed plans because they were overwhelmed, took days away because they were unhappy, or simply admitted that something wasn't working and stopped doing it.

The first few times Rhynar witnessed this, she was baffled. “You can just quit?” she asked Velonna once. Velonna looked equally confused. “If you're miserable? Yes.” Rhynar almost laughed. What an extraordinary concept. Where Rhynar came from, misery wasn't generally considered evidence that something should stop. Sometimes misery was simply Tuesday.

She had learned perseverance because there had rarely been another option. You went to work tired. You walked when transportation failed. You stretched the remaining percentage until payday. You tolerated people you disliked because they controlled something you needed. You kept going because stopping didn't make the consequences stop with you.

Here, feelings carried weight.

People expected their lives to accommodate them at least a little. Rhynar initially mistook that for weakness. Perhaps some of it was. But late at night, comfortable in a condo she wasn't paying for, with Tully asleep nearby and no overdue percentage quietly accumulating somewhere in the background, another possibility occurred to her.

Maybe people here hadn't failed to learn how to endure misery. Maybe they had simply learned to question why they should. Rhynar wasn't sure which way of living produced stronger people. For the moment, though, she knew which one felt better.

After the career expo, Gent gathered everyone together to announce their placements.

Most of them landed more or less where they had expected. Velonna was headed toward sales. Oren had been placed on a business-development track that suited him almost too well. Rhynar's placement followed the academic route she had already been told to expect.

Tully's did not. Gent looked down at his tablet. “Tully, you'll be entering the non-corporate-to-corporate research track as an assistant.” Tully stared at him. “Research?”

Gent affirmed. “Yes.” Tully frowned. “I applied for public relations.” Gent, as usual, gave his typical short response. “I know.” Tully protested. “You said outreach.” As Gent countered. “I said your scores would determine placement.” Her expression changed. Not anger, exactly. Something more wounded than that.

“So I was never really choosing?” Gent lowered the tablet. “You were expressing a preference.” Tully's discontent was palpable. “That sounds like choosing.” Rhynar could see Gent searching for the right answer. “This isn't permanent,” he said. “Give the program a chance. See what the work is actually like. If you still hate it after training begins, you can decide whether you want to stay or go home.” Tully folded her arms. “And if I go home?”

Gent shrugged nonchalantly, “Then you go home.” She looked around the room as though waiting for someone to reveal another option hidden somewhere. There wasn't. “Fine,” she said at last. It was not a convincing fine.

Later that evening, she appeared in Rhynar's room looking more disappointed than angry.

“I thought this place was different.” Rhynar looked up from the book she had been pretending to read. “It is.” She tried to quell Tully's disappointment without giving her ammunition to wallow in self-pity either. Tully continued. “They told me I could apply for what I wanted.” Rhynar again gave point-blank answers for Tully to bounce another complaint off of. “You did.” Tully plopped herself down on Rhynar's recliner as if she were giving a stage preformance monolg. “And then they put me somewhere else.”

Rhynar could see that Tully was both naive and unfamiliar with corporate life that had a way of pulling the rug out from under a person. She felt pity for Tully, but also that she was looking at the situation with a clouded lens. She wondered if Tully was more upset with not getting her way than she was at the actual job offer. Tully, however, was waiting for her to give sage advice, of which there was none to pacify her. Rhynar, taking a note from Gent, said. “That also happens.”

Tully rolled, facing away from Rhynar on the sofa. “What if I went to Midwestern instead?” Rhynar actually laughed. Tully frowned. “I'm serious.” She couldn't take her childish behavior seriously. “I know. That's why I'm laughing.” Tully was not expecting to be treated like an adult. “What?” Rhynar was giving her the tough love she probably never had before. “They probably wouldn't have considered your request at all.” Tully sat up. “Why not?” Rhynar honestly answered. “Because they wouldn't know what to do with you.” Tully rolled her eyes at the thought. “That isn't an answer.”Rhynar maintained her stance. “It is where I'm from.”

Rhynar set the book aside. “Most people don't get placed because they say what they want to do. They get placed according to what school they came through, who paid for it, what their family work history looks like, who recommends them, and whether anyone important has already decided where they belong.” Tully's face tightened. “My family isn't in any of that.” Rhynar looked at her matter-of-factly. “Exactly.” Tully, clutching the blanket she had crawled into, asked. “So they wouldn't take me?” Rhynar, trying not to give her false hope, replied. “They might. But I wouldn't expect them to care that you wanted public relations.”

Tully stared at the floor.

For the first time since arriving, Central North no longer seemed magical to her.

It simply seemed like another system. Over the next several days, Tully withdrew while Rhynar seemed to come more fully alive. She called her mother to tell her about the placement, the lodging, the meals, the training, all of it.

Her mother was delighted. “I knew something would break your way eventually.” Rhynar smiled. “I'm trying not to get too excited.” Her mother encouraged her. “You should get excited.” That was the sort of thing her mother always said. Her father, predictably, had a different interpretation.

When Rhynar told him she would not begin her specialized program until spring, he immediately decided that the delay meant she had performed badly. “So you didn't score high enough to class up right away?” Rhynar closed her eyes, already feeling defensive, something she felt often when talking to him. “I scored well.” She said, trying to stand up for herself. He continued cutting her down. “Then why are they making you wait?” She explained. “Because the program follows an academic calendar.” Unconvinced by her, he grumbled. “That's what they're telling you.”

Rhynar looked around the furnished condo. She was suddenly very grateful for the distance between them. Her father had always been her greatest skeptic. When Rhynar was young, she had assumed that meant there must be something about her worth doubting. Children had a way of turning other people's failures inward. As an adult, the pattern was easier to see. Her father expected disappointment first and evidence second.

Thankfully, her mother had always done the opposite. She believed in Rhynar before there was anything to prove. Rhynar sometimes wondered what kind of person she might have become without that counterweight. Probably a much more miserable one.

While Rhynar settled into her new surroundings, Tully continued to unravel.

Most evenings she ended up in Rhynar's condo, curled up on the sofa or sitting cross-legged on the floor, moping about home. She missed her family. She missed the noise. She missed knowing what came next. And more than anything, she resented the feeling that she had been promised one life and handed another.

On a rainy night, as they munched on their ordered dinner. Tully lamented. “I wouldn't have come if they'd told me this.” Rhynar had tried to comfort Tully as much as she could, but there was a point at which Tully had to move on or get over it. Rhynar, still chewing her grilled tomatoes, mumbled. “You don't know that.” Tully, being dramatic, told her. “I do.”

Rhynar, feeling like her energy was being zapped out of her body by Tully's incessant grievance venting, flatly said. “No, you know you don't like it now.” Tully glared at her. “That is not comforting.” Rhynar, being as realistic as possible, replied. “I wasn't trying to be comforting.”

During the day, the group would meet up here and there. Rhynar kept trying to pull her into whatever the others were doing, hoping to get her out of her own head. There were restaurants to try, markets to wander through, public gardens, music halls, late-night cafés, and places Rhynar had never imagined having access to without first calculating whether she could afford the percentage. Oren and Velonna rarely needed persuading. Tully increasingly did.

As the start of her technical program drew closer, her apprehension sharpened.

She asked more questions about home. She talked more about what she had expected.

She stopped saying when I start school and began saying if I start school. Rhynar noticed. For the first time since arriving, they seemed to be moving in opposite directions. Rhynar was beginning to wonder how much more life might hold. Tully was beginning to wonder whether leaving home had been a mistake.

Then there was a day where Tully gave everyone the silent treatment. That night, Tully startled Rhynar from her sleep. “I can’t do it.” Rhynar opened her eyes. Tully was standing in the doorway, clutching a blanket around herself. “I want to go home.”

Rhynar pushed herself upright, still half asleep. “Then tell Gent in the morning. If that’s really what you want, he can help you go back.” Tully shook her head. “No.” Rhynar blinked. “No?” Tully seemed to have given up fighting to stay. “I’m not telling anyone but you.” That woke her up. “Why?” Tully looked away. “You haven’t even started school yet,” Rhynar said. “I’m telling you, this is not a bad arrangement. I really think you should give it a chance before you decide.” Tully wouldn't hear it. She interrupted. “I’m leaving.” Rhynar wanted to help her from deciding out of anxiety. “Tully—” Tully cut her off again. “I’m walking out of here, and no one is going to stop me.”

Rhynar stared at her. “No one is stopping you.” Tully waited for her to finish. " No one is stopping you. You’re free to go,” Rhynar continued, expecting Tully to talk over her again. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why make it harder on yourself? There is literally someone assigned to help you.” Tully murmured. “I signed a contract.” Rhynar paused. Tully explained her concern. “If I leave, I have to pay back everything they already spent on me.” Rhynar, trying to remember the fine print of her contract, thought out loud. “I don’t think that’s how it works.” Tully pushed. “You don’t know that.” She was as restless as ever. “No,” Rhynar said, “but neither do you.”

Tully brushed her shoulder-length hair off of the blanket around her shoulders. “I just want to go.” Rhynar studied her for a moment. The anger had burned off. What remained looked more like panic. “All right,” Rhynar said. “Let me talk to Gent tomorrow.” Tully immediately shook her head. “You don’t have to talk to him.” Rhynar, feeling like she could lessen the damage Tully's attitude might cause, put herself as a middleman between the two. “I know.” She wanted to ensure Tully wasn't blackballed from coming back in the future because she saw this as a possible regret for Tully. Tully, though, didn't understand as she stamped at the idea. “Then don’t.” Rhynar, not wanting to go behind her back, told her directly. “I’m going to.”

Tully glared at her. Rhynar kept her voice calm. “Let me be the go-between. You don’t have to explain everything to him. I’ll find out what your options are, and I’ll make sure you don’t accidentally make this worse for yourself.” Tully hesitated. “Okay?” After a long moment, she finally nodded. “Okay.” Rhynar was relieved. “Good.”

Rhynar lay back down. Tully was stalling about something. Rhynar was not sure if there was something else. “What?” Tully sheepishly said. “Nothing.” She looked at her feet. Rhynar again asked. “Tully.” Tully, looking up quickly, blurted. “Thank you.” Rhynar pulled the blanket over her head. “Go to sleep.”

The next morning, Rhynar pulled Gent aside before their usual corporate indoctrination classes. The program was nearly finished, and Gent had already begun speaking about the next group he would be assigned to "I need to talk to you about Tully.” Gent glanced toward her. Tully was standing with the others several yards away, unusually quiet. "She wants to go home,” Rhynar said. Gent exhaled through his nose. “I suspected she might.” Rhynar frowned. “You did?” He went on. “Her family traveled with her most of the way here.” Rhynar, not familiar with unincorporated culture, asked. “Is that unusual?” He tipped his head forward. “Very.”

Gent looked back toward Tully. “They’re extremely close-knit. She’s never really been away from them.” Rhynar nodded. That much she already knew. “She’s not doing well.” Gent half agreed. “No.” Rhynar, in a hushed voice, said. "She wanted to leave without telling anyone.” Gent looked mildly alarmed. “Leave how?” Rhynar motioned toward the exit. “Walk out.” Gent frowned. “That would complicate things,” Rhynar agreed. "That’s what I told her.”

Rhynar explained what Tully had said about the contract and repaying the cost of her placement. Gent shook his head. “She wouldn’t owe the full amount,” Rhynar asked the burning question. “So she can go?” Gent defensively answered. “Of course she can go.” Rhynar confused. “Then why does she think she can’t?” Gent considered that. “Embarrassment, probably,” Rhynar said nothing. “She has to be formally released from the contract and escorted back to the point where she originally matriculated,” Gent explained. “I imagine she doesn’t want to admit she’s withdrawing.”

That sounded exactly like Tully. Gent thought for a moment. “There is a simple solution.” Rhynar waited. “I have to move on after your indoctrination course ends anyway. I could arrange her return.” Rhynar felt like they were making headway. “That’s good.” Gent dashed that hope. “You could go with her.” Rhynar looked at him. “Me?” She hadn't expected that. “You have time.”

He wasn’t wrong. Her own technical program would not begin until spring. “You’d remain enrolled,” Gent continued. “Your lodging would be held. Your records wouldn’t change. You’d simply be traveling before your course begins.” Rhynar felt something shift inside her.

Until that moment, the time between now and spring had felt like an empty stretch she was supposed to fill somehow. Now it felt like an opening. “How long would it take?” Gent shrugged. “That depends on how quickly you want to come back.” Rhynar smiled. “I’ll go.”

When Rhynar told Tully, the change in her was immediate. “I’m taking you home.” Tully stared at her. “What?” She wasn't as pleased as Rhynar had anticipated. "Gent arranged it. We’ll go back by train.” Tully threw her arms around her. Rhynar nearly lost her balance.

“You’re coming with me?” To her own surprise, Rhynar answered. “Yes.”

Tully pulled away and was already going toward her condo. “I have to pack.” She disappeared, nearly skipping.

Rhynar laughed. Then, unexpectedly, she felt sad. She had only just begun to settle in. For the first time in years, she liked where she was. The lodging was comfortable. The city was easy. She had routines that didn’t exhaust her. Leaving so soon felt strangely backward.

A second worry followed. What if something happened? What if the trip took longer than expected? What if she somehow missed the beginning of her own program? Then Rhynar remembered that spring was still months away. Months. She had never had that kind of time before. The thought steadied her.

The next morning, they walked to the station together. Tully moved beside her with a lightness Rhynar had not seen since the expo, almost bouncing with every step. Rhynar was quieter. The farther they walked, the tighter the knot in her stomach became. She told herself it was only because she was leaving somewhere she had just learned to enjoy. But as the station came into view, another thought occurred to her. This was the first time in her life she was going somewhere simply because she could.