Revive by Tracey Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

returned to scanning the area, spinning around every few paces to check our backs, but nothing triggers any alarms in my head. There are plenty of business people in long black coats, children in bright puffy jackets with matching hats, and everyone in every variation between. I’m sure I appear ridiculous to those watching me, but Kyle keeps quiet.
    Eventually, though, my need for information takes over. “Was South Station where we planned to go, or were we going somewhere else?”
    â€œLike I said, I don’t know what you were planning. We got off the T there, and you said you’d be right back, then you ran into the bathroom. You know the rest. Or, well, you don’t, but that brings us back to now.”
    A blast of bitter wind bites at my ears. I saw a hat and mittens in the backpack but don’t feel like stopping to get them out.
    My hat. My backpack. I silently repeat it a few times, hoping it will sink in.
    I am Sophia. Only I’m not entirely sure who Sophia is.
    We’ve reached the end of the Common and wait for the signal to cross the street toward Boston Garden. Cars zip by, and I fight the urge to stand behind Kyle, letting him block me from view. Anyone could be in those cars. Anyone, like the guys from South Station. I shiver and tug my jacket’s collar over my chin.
    Kyle motions to a coffee shop on the corner, and we cut away from the Garden. It’s crowded in there, but maybe that will help me blend in.
    Before we can enter, he pulls me to the side. “What you did back at South Station, how you took down those guys, it was…” The rest of the comment hangs in the space between us, thin and chilly as the air.
    â€œI don’t know how I did it. It was like some kind of instinct. If I thought about it too much, I wouldn’t know what I was doing.”
    â€œThen you must be really well trained.” He scoots aside, letting a woman walking a very fluffy dog pass. “My dad is big into martial arts. The whole point of training is so that it becomes instinctual.”
    His eyes search me for answers I don’t have. “Really, I don’t know. I guess I never mentioned anything like that?”
    â€œNope. Never.” He sounds hurt.
    I wonder what else I never mentioned, and why. “I’m sorry.”
    He takes my arm. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you had your reasons. I just wish I knew more. Then I could do more to help.”
    His words and his nervous tone don’t match, but I’m not sure what to make of either. There are so many reasons he might be upset. I don’t remember him well enough to guess.
    â€œIn?” I motion toward the door.
    We get lucky and grab a couple seats together by the window as someone gets up to leave. I’d rather not be next to the window, putting my face on display, but it’s that or nothing. And nothing is out. I need to warm up.
    Kyle takes off his jacket, revealing a black T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal shirt. It’s the T-shirt that says Sweet Cartwheeling Jesus on it. The one from that day at the bell tower.
    â€œI’ll get the drinks,” he says. “Why don’t you stay here and save the seats.”
    I’m so busy staring at his shirt, growing furious with my inability to remember more, that I just nod. The back of his shirt says Gutterfly, followed by a bunch of dates. It’s a band T-shirt.
    I press my back as far against the wall as possible, trying to stay out of the window’s view, and rub my eyes. Gutterfly. The name isn’t totally unfamiliar. Like the faces on those guys at South Station, I know I’m familiar with it more so than I recognize it.
    Clinging to that piece of information, I ransack the dark, messy space in my mind. There’s something in there. For some reason, I feel as if the more pieces I can put in place, the easier it’ll be to unclutter and retrieve the rest.
    By the time Kyle returns