Cam has learned to bite back the scream in his dreams, holding it inside until he drags himself from the rancid soup of his nightmare and into the living, breathing world, where he is himself and not the particulated bits of his “inner community.”

Tonight he is alone. He knows there are people around him, but in a private jet soaring through an icy black sky, he cannot help but feel alone in the universe. It is in these moments of profound loneliness that the questions posed by the more judgmental audience members haunt him, for their questions are his own.

Am I truly alive? Do I even exist?

Certainly he exists as organic matter, but as a sentient being? As a someone rather than a something? There are too many moments in his life when he just doesn’t know. And if, in the end, each individual faces judgment, will he stand to face it too—or will the constituents of his inner community return to their true owners, leaving a void where he once stood?

He curls his hands into fists. I am! he wants to shout. I exist. But he knows better than to voice these concerns to Roberta anymore. Better if she thinks his weaknesses lie in youthful lust.

This is the fury that fills him when no one is watching. Fury that the hecklers in the audience may be right and he may be nothing more than medical sleight of hand. A trick of the scalpel. A hollow shell mimicking life.

In these dark nihilistic moments when the universe itself seems to be rejecting him the way people’s bodies used to reject transplanted organs, he thinks of Risa.

Risa. Her name explodes into his mind, and he fights the urge to put his mind in lockdown. Risa did not despise him. Yes, at first she did, but she came to truly know him and to see him as an individual who is more than the sum of his parts. In the end, she came to care for him in her own way.

When he was with Risa, Cam felt real. When he was with her, he felt more than a patchwork of science and hubris.

He cannot deny how much he loves her—and the pain of that longing is enough to make him know that he lives. That he is. For how could he feel such anguish if he had no soul?

Yet in many ways he feels as if she took his soul with her when she left.

Do you know what that feels like, Risa? he wants to ask her. Do you know what it’s like to be un-souled? Is that how you felt when your precious Connor died at Happy Jack Harvest Camp? Cam knows beyond a shadow of a doubt he could fill that void in her, if only she loved him enough to let him. It would be the one thing that would make him feel whole.

Mild turbulence rattles the jet, sounding so much more ominous than it really is. He hears Roberta stirring, then settling back into the depth of sleep once more. The woman has no idea how fully she has been duped. She, so clever, so shrewd, so aware, and yet so blind.

He knows she will see though any pretense he puts forth, so all his deceits must be thickly coated with truth, like the candy coating of a Jordan almond.

Yes, it’s true Cam does enjoy the attention of pretty girls who are drawn to his unique gravity. And yes, it’s true that in his more glorious moments Cam does feel inebriated by his own existence, drunk on a heady brew of human ambrosia—the humanity that was unwound to create him. He has learned how to summon that feeling—to draw it like a bath and luxuriate in it when he needs to. It is the candy coating on the kernel of truth that only he knows, but shares with no one.

I am nothing without Risa.

So he will play the role of the spoiled star, allowing Roberta to think his hedonistic ways are real. And he will enjoy himself just enough to fool her and make her think arrogance and excess are all she needs to wrangle.

The plane begins its descent to wherever it is they’re going next. More audiences. More Mirandas. A pleasant way to bide his time. Cam smiles, remembering the secret pledge he made with himself. If the one thing that Risa wants more than all else is the utter destruction of Proactive Citizenry, then Cam will find a way to provide it for her. More than just undermining Roberta, he will wedge himself in the gears of the entire Proactive Citizenry machine. He will find a way to shut it down, and Risa will know that he was the one who did it.

Then she will truly love him, returning every last bit of his affections. And she will restore to him his soul.

14 • Manager

The Redwood Bluff Campground is sold out.

The manager of the Northern California campground should be happy, but he’s troubled in the worst way. For him, the worst way means in his wallet.

A huge portion of the campground is taken up by Camp Red Heron—a summer camp for underprivileged kids. The bright crimson camp shirts are everywhere.

The afternoon before they’re scheduled to leave, the manager comes into the midst of the campground of teens, who all admittedly look underprivileged. There are at least a hundred of them. They seem a little stressed when they see him, but quickly get back to their business. Mostly they act like kids on vacation, throwing balls, climbing trees—but there’s a fear in their eyes and a sense of distrust in their actions. It betrays something their camp T-shirts are trying to hide.

“Excuse me. Who’s in charge here?”

A girl who could have been a bouncer in a previous life comes forward. “He’s busy,” she tells him. “You can talk to me.”

“I’ll talk to the person in charge,” the manager insists. “And I’ll talk to him in private.”

The big girl sneers. “You won’t get much privacy among our campers.” She folds her arms in defiance of his request. “I’ll tell him you came by.”

“I’ll wait,” he says.

Then from behind the girl, he hears, “It’s okay, Bam. I’ll talk to him.”

From a gaggle of kids, emerges a teen—couldn’t be any older than sixteen. He’s short, but well built. Red hair with substantially long brown roots. He, like the girl, wears a red polo shirt with a logo indicating camp staff. He also wears a leather glove on one hand, but not the other. For all intents and purposes, he appears like a fine young man—but appearances are often deceiving.

He gestures to the manager. “Walk with me.”

They leave the clearing, taking a path through the redwoods. The massive, ancient trees never cease to amaze the manager—one of the reasons why he took the job, even though it pays so little. Today, however, he’s confident his fortunes will change.

He knows the path by heart and takes it only as far as the nearest campsite that’s not occupied by Red Herons. A large family with lots of toddlers running around in diapers. He makes sure to keep the campsite, and the people there, in sight, because he suspects it’s not a good idea to go any deeper into the woods alone with this young man.

“If you’re worried about us cleaning up the campsite,” the kid says, “I promise it will be done.”

“I didn’t get your name,” the manager says.

He smirks. “Anson.” The smirk is so blatant and broad, it’s clear that this isn’t his real name.

“Awfully young to be in charge of all these kids, aren’t you?”

“Looks are deceiving,” he says. “I got the job because I look closer to their age.”

“I see.” He looks down at the young man’s left hand. “What’s with the glove?”

The kid holds up his hand. “What’s the matter? You have a problem with Louis Vuitton?”

The manager notes that the fingers of that hand don’t seem to move. “Not at all. It just seems like an odd accessory for a camping trip.”

The kid puts down his hand. “I’m a busy man, Mr. Proctor. It is Proctor, isn’t it? Mark Proctor?”

The manager is caught off guard that this kid knows his name. Most people who book campsites at Redwood Bluff barely know he exists, much less know his name.

“If it’s about payment,” the young man says, “we already paid in full, and we paid in cash. I’m sure that’s better than most people.”

The manager decides to get to the point, because he’s beginning to feel that the longer he draws this out, the more likely this kid will find a way to squirm off the hook.

“Yes, you did. One problem, though: I did some checking, and there is no Camp Red Heron. Not in this state or any other.”

“Well,” says the kid in a slick, condescending tone, “you obviously haven’t been looking in the right place.”

Mark Proctor will not be mocked. “As I said, there is no Camp Red Heron. What there are, however, are reports of a gang of renegade Unwinds. And one of them is an AWOL cop killer named Mason Michael Starkey. The picture looks an awful lot like you, ‘Anson.’ Without the red hair, of course.”

The boy only smiles. “How can I help you, Mr. Proctor?”

Proctor knows he’s in the driver’s seat now. He’s got this Starkey kid by the short hairs. He gives the kid back his mocking, condescending tone. “I would be shirking my civic responsibility if I didn’t turn you and your little menagerie over to the Juvenile Authority.”

“But you haven’t done it yet.”

Proctor takes a deep breath. “Maybe I could be persuaded not to.”

He has no idea how much money these kids have, or where it comes from, but clearly they have enough to keep their little charade going. Proctor doesn’t mind relieving them of some of that cash.

“All right,” says Starkey. “Let me see if I can persuade you, then.” He reaches into his pocket, but instead of producing a billfold, he produces a photograph. He deftly flips it in the fingers of his ungloved hand like a magician presenting a playing card.

The picture is of Proctor’s teenaged daughter. It appears to have been taken recently, from right outside of her bedroom window. She’s in the middle of doing her evening aerobic exercises.

“Her name is Victoria,” Starkey says, “but she goes by Vicki—did I get that right? She seems like a nice girl. I sincerely hope nothing bad ever happens to her.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, not at all.” The picture seems to vanish before Proctor’s eyes as Starkey moves his fingers. “We also know where your son goes to college—he’s there on a swimming scholarship, because you certainly can’t afford Stanford on your salary, can you? It’s sad, but sometimes the best of swimmers have been known to drown. They get a little too sure of themselves, from what I understand.” Starkey says nothing more. He just smiles with false pleasantness. A bird high above in the redwoods squawks as if amused, and a toddler in the nearby campsite begins to cry, as if mourning the loss of Mark Proctor’s dignity.

“What do you want?” Proctor asks coldly.

Starkey’s smile never loses any of its warmth. He puts his arm around Proctor’s shoulder and walks them back the way they came. “All I want is to persuade you not to turn us in—just as you suggested. As long as you say nothing about us—either now or after we’ve left—I can personally guarantee that your lovely family will remain just as lovely as ever.”

Proctor swallows, realizing that the sense of power he had only a few moments ago was nothing but an illusion.

“So do we have a deal?” Starkey prompts. He holds out his gloved hand for Proctor to shake, and Proctor grabs it, shaking it with conviction. Starkey grimaces as Proctor pumps his hand, but even the grimace is a show of strength rather than weakness.