"I don't have to explain anything to you or to anyone else. I raised my hand, I got chosen, and that's all."
Risa crosses her arms in defiance of his defiance. "You don't go anywhere if I don't give you a clean bill of health. I could tell the Admiral you've got . . . you've got. . . infectious hepatitis."
"You wouldn't!"
"Just watch me."
He storms away from her, kicking the wall in fury, then storms back. "He won't believe you! And even if he does, you can't keep me sick forever!"
"Why are you so determined to go?"
"There are things I have to do," Lev says. "I don't expect you to understand. I'm sorry I'm not who you want me to be, but I've changed. I'm not that same stupid, naive kid you guys kidnapped two months ago. Nothing you can do will keep me from leaving here and doing what I've got to do."
Risa says nothing, because she knows he's right. She can stall him at best, but she can't stop him.
"So," says Lev, a bit more calmly now. "Do I have infectious hepatitis or not?"
She sighs. "No. You don't."
He turns to leave, opening the bulkhead door. He's so determined to move on, he doesn't even think to offer her a good-bye.
"You're wrong about one thing," she says before he's out the door. "You're just as naive as you were before. And maybe twice as stupid."
Then he's gone. That same afternoon, an unmarked white van comes to take him, Mai, and the flesh-head away. Once again, Risa thinks she'll never see Lev again. Once again, she'll be wrong.
37 Emby and the Admiral
Emby has no idea of all the gears turning in the Graveyard— or even that he's one of them. His world is contained within the square panels of his comic books and the well-defined borders of a pinball machine. Staying within those borders has been a successful defense against the injustice and cruelty of life outside of them.
He does not question the oddness of the trio that just left for Alaska; it's not his business. He does not sense the tension in Connor; Connor can take care of himself. He does not spend time wondering about Roland; he just stays out of Roland's way.
But keeping his head down does not keep him in the safe zone. Emby is, in fact, the central bumper on the pinball board, and every single ball in play is about to rebound off of him.
* * *
The Admiral has called for him.
Emby now stands nervously at the entrance to what was once the mobile command center for a president of the United States. There are two other men here. They are in white shirts and dark ties. The black sedan that waits at the bottom of the stairs must be theirs. The Admiral sits at his desk. Emby tries to decide whether he should enter, or turn around and run away. But the Admiral sees him, and his gaze freezes Emby's feet in place.
"You wanted me, sir?"
"Yes. Have a seat, Zachary."
He forces his feet to move toward the chair across from the Admiral. "Emby," he says. "Everyone just calls me Emby."
"Is that your choice, or theirs?" asks the Admiral.
"Well . . . theirs, mostly—but I got used to it."
"Never let anyone else name you," says the Admiral. He leafs through a file with Emby's picture clipped to the cover. It's a full file, and Emby can't imagine how there could be enough interesting things in his life to fill a file that thick. "You may not realize this, but you're a very special boy," says the Admiral.
Emby can only look down at his shoelaces, which are, as always, moments away from coming untied. "Is that why I'm here, sir? Because I'm special?"
"Yes, Zachary. And because of it, you're going to be leaving us today."
Emby looks up. "What?"
"There's someone who wants to meet you. In fact, it's someone who has been looking for you for a very long time."