Meridian by Josin L. McQuein Read Free Book Online

ever made. I like the lack of symmetry and the way one part drags lower than the others, like it’s melting toward the floor.
    Tobin’s favorite snow globe sits on my side table. His mother had dozens of them, and this one, a desert beneath a night of falling stars, is the one he re-created for me in the Well. It was a magical idea—a place so full of light and heat that humans would be free of the Fade. Giving it to me couldn’t have been easy.
    My secret is that Rue hangs on my wall. No one knows he’s what the cut-out image of the bird I tacked there means. The page came from Tobin’s paper stash—something called a word-of-the-day calendar—and apparently, June seventeenth was a day for ornithology. My space wouldn’t be complete without Rue.
    This room is tiny, to hold so much.
    It’s where I met myself for the first time, standing as I am now, in front of the mirror. My skin’s still pale, but no longer ashen, now that the Fade no longer block the melanin. Dr. Wolff says my hair is likely to darken, along with my eyes, but I think I may be stuck with white blonde and ice blue. I’ll never know what I should really look like.
    Honoria’s book burns against my back, where I stashed it in my waistband.
    I sit cross-legged on the floor, in an empty corner where the bed will hide me from view if anyone comes in unannounced, and open the book. This paper is heavier from what filled Tobin’s magazines. It turns slowly, dragging across the facing page. Someone’s sewn a pocket to the inside of the front cover and then stuffed it with folded scraps and pictures. I’m not sure I should risk touching those. The pocket’s aged and is as brittle as the satin covering the book. It might give way.
    A card fastened to the first page reads:
    Our Wedding
    ~ Rashid & Trinity ~
    May 15 th
    I turn the page and hit an unexpected obstacle. The words aren’t typed like what we read for class. They’re handwritten in blue ink, so the letters loop and swirl into lines I can barely make out. Everything’s thin and tilted.
    Someone—Honoria, I suppose—marked through the word Guest at the top of the page and replaced it with a date.
    May 19
    Dear Rashid and Trinity, whoever you are,
    I’m sorry I took your guestbook, but it was the closest thing I could find to a journal in the salvage pile. We’re past the 15th, anyway, so I guess you didn’t need it. Nothing spoils a wedding like the apocalypse, eh?
    Sorry, that was mean.
    Wherever you are, I hope you’re together, and still human, and that you found a way to get married, even without the pretty white satin. I’ll take care of it, I promise. And if you somehow end up here, or I end up where you are, I’ll give it back.
    Sincerely,
    Honoria Jean Whit
    I’ve never paid much attention to how something sounds in my head while I read, but it’s Honoria’s voice I hear. She’s younger, unsure of herself, and quick to apologize. I wonder if any of that has survived.
    The next entry is on the same page as the first.
    Also May 19
    Dear Rashid and Trinity,
    Sorry to keep bringing you into this, but it’s easier if I can pretend this is one long letter. If I’m writing to people who might still exist, then there’s hope the world’s still working.
    I am such a head case.
    I’m holed up in the corner, bunched up in a sleeping bag, and writing letters to strangers with their feather wedding pen. This is stupid.
    The entry stops there. There are a couple of drawings in the margins of a woman in a long dress and a man in a suit, but no more words for several days.
    Loose pages are stuck between the bound ones, where she scribbled things down and pressed them in. These are sheets of lined paper with holes in them, not guestbook pages.
    The entire chronicle of how mankind fell to the Fade is here. She filled in the gaps by memory, adding details of the run from her house to the Arclight and how they almost didn’t make it. She focuses on her family—especially her little