Hugh Howey

They sat quietly for a while, Jahns resting back on the pillows, Marnes staring off into space. She was surprised to find how calming and natural it was, just being in a room, alone, with him. The talk wasn’t necessary. They could just be. No badge, no office. Two people.

Lukas laughed. It was strange how familiar it already sounded, and how badly she needed to hear it. Juliette had a sudden urge to grab him, to tuck her chin into his neck, and to cry. She could almost feel her body begin to piece the moves together – even though her skin would not budge. It could never happen. She knew this, even as the sensation vibrated within her. It was just the loneliness,

‘I can’t imagine loving in secret like that,’ he said.

He was an easy man to figure, one of those who had grown old everywhere but in his heart, that one organ he had never worn out because he’d never dared to use it.

A project to pull the wool back from everyone’s eyes, a favour to the next fool who slipped up or dared to hope aloud.

If he went to work, at least he’d be distracted.

‘Thank you,’ she said, remembering her manners.
And then, after some consideration:
‘I’m sorry I fell asleep.’

Maybe he should just crawl back into bed and sleep, kill some hours with unconsciousness.

She had begged him to find someone, to not be like her, to never be alone.

‘You know why I’ve never taken a shadow?’ Bernard asked. He flipped through the manual, saw the play on the reverse side, and turned the bound sheets of paper around. He glanced up at Lukas, who lifted his palms and shrugged.
‘It’s because I shudder to think of anyone else ever running this place.’