The Well's End

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

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Copyright © 2014 by Seth Fishman.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Fishman, Seth.

The well's end / Seth Fishman.

pages cm

Summary: “16-year-old Mia Kish and her friends search for answers when a mysterious illness brings their Colorado community to its knees”—Provided by publisher.

[1. Virus diseases—Fiction. 2. Survival—Fiction. 3. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 4. Boarding schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 7. Single-parent families—Fiction. 8. Colorado—Fiction. 9. Science fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.F5357Wel 2014

[Fic]—dc23

2013022716

ISBN 978-1-101-61649-9

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

To Marget, my superhero, my tiny dancer.

WHAT'S THE FIRST THING YOU REMEMBER?

I've heard the Question before. Who hasn't? But when someone asks me, the Question has a different meaning. It's not often that the whole world knows who you are, has known you forever, has given you a nickname. Baby Mia. They still call me that. Strangers still call me that. Baby Mia, who fell down the well. Like a nursery rhyme. When someone asks about my first memory, what they really want to know is
do you remember the well?

Do I remember the well? I was four years old in 1999, when I became famous. I broke my arm, two ribs and my nose—it's still a little crooked. People tell me that they honked their horns when I was pulled free, that they hung the picture of me bundled and bandaged on their fridge for years. Baby Mia, who fell down the well.

But truthfully, there is no memory. Only darkness. Considering how deep I was, maybe darkness
is
the memory. Blackness, water up to my knees, lucky it was August and it didn't rain, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich lowered in a Pink Power Rangers lunchbox. My memories are the stories everyone tells, the stories about where they were, what they were doing, about the time Baby Mia fell down a well.

Reporters come and go. When my mom died (blizzard, pine tree), at least a dozen inquiries came through. As if what I most wanted to do after my mother's funeral was talk about my stint underground. The funny thing is, underground was all I could think about. My mother was going to be cold down there, dark, with no one to save her and with no one watching and holding vigils and honking horns and crying.

I'm sure that's what reporters wanted to hear from me.

But I admit that something about this reporter feels different. For one, he
looks
different. No wrinkled, collared shirt underneath a wrinkled beige sweater. No notebook and no smell of fast food. He's clean-shaven, his cheeks looking almost crisp, like a banker. But he's not in a suit. Instead, he's wearing a tight fleece, hiking boots and dirty jeans, as if he's just returned from a stroll in the woods. His brown hair recedes hesitantly back up his forehead, leaving a small tuft up front. He smiles gently enough, and he has a notepad and paper, but he hasn't pulled out a recorder of any sort. I'm not sure I remember ever doing an interview where there wasn't a recorder. Staring at him, I find myself uneasy and keep wiggling in my chair. He seems distracted, uninterested in me and the story, which, I'm embarrassed to say, is making me jealous. We've been sitting here on a cloud-covered Thursday, in the conference room of the main faculty offices at my boarding school, Westbrook, for about ten minutes now, quietly bouncing our legs. We're waiting on my father.

The reporter—his name's Blake Sutton—glances at his watch and sighs, then pulls himself to his feet and goes to examine the class photos strung evenly along the walls.

“Your father is in one of these photos, isn't he?”

These are his first words since
nice to meet you.
At least we're done with the staring contest. “That's right,” I say, pointing down a few frames from where he's standing. “Class of '78.”

Mr. Sutton shuffles over, bends and squints at the photo. He shakes his head a little and looks back at me, then to the image. “Quite the similarities.” It's true: we both have the same high cheekbones and small foreheads, same wavy brown hair, same camera-shy smile.

“I guess,” I say, bored already. Why do I agree to do these interviews anymore? Maybe it's time to stop. As if reading my mind he turns back to me and claps his hands together once and then pushes his right fist toward me—
the mike's on you
—and asks me what the local attractions of Fenton, Colorado, are.

I don't roll my eyes, but it's close. “What? Are you talking about Gracie?”

“Gracie?” he asks, returning to his seat.

“The tallest sycamore in the world.” She's five miles up the road and a few hundred yards into the tree line, and it takes five kids holding hands to ring around her trunk.

Mr. Sutton smiles, and his teeth are überwhite and straight and thick. “I didn't know that.”

“You didn't? It's true. Did you know that Fenton has the only Roman aqueduct in North America? It's handmade of over a million bricks.”

He leans back now, impressed, letting me run the show. “What else you got?”

“I've got annual migrations of locusts, and we're the home of the national-chicken-thigh-eating competition.” Suddenly I'm relaxed, in my element, having answered this line of questioning dozens of times, the familiarity of this back-and-forth a comfort. He's not taking any notes, but whatever—at least he hasn't asked me the Question yet.

The door opens behind me, and since I'm staring at Mr. Sutton's face, I get a good look at the moment he sees my father walk into the room. He grins, his lips parting slightly, and I see his tongue peeking out ever so slightly like a giddy dog. And then he seems to realize what kind of face he's making, because he straightens up and stands, extending his hand. Dad hasn't come into the room yet. He's still in the doorway.

For some reason, I don't move. I feel off-kilter, like I'm missing something very important. After a short while, Mr. Sutton lowers his hand, unshaken, and backs into his seat.

“Please, Mr. Kish, join us.” He nods toward the empty chair next to me. “I was waiting for you to begin. Mia's been telling me all about Fenton.”

The boards bend under my dad's feet, and he moves to kiss my head. “Hi, hon,” he whispers, and takes a seat. He's clenching his jaw over and again, the bone protruding from his cheek like a twitch as he stares intently at Mr. Sutton.

“Dad?” I ask, sensing something wrong.

“Mr.
Sutton,
” Dad says, not acknowledging me, “when I agreed to this meeting I didn't know it would be with
you.
I have to get back to work soon, so why are we here?”

Mr. Sutton nods his head knowingly, but ignores Dad's question. “Yes, yes. Late nights at the Cave nowadays?”

My father grips the chair tight enough for the wood to creak. There is no Take Your Kid to Work Day with my dad. In fact, I've never met another employee of Fenton Electronics. I think about the tunnel he drives into every morning on his way to work. The one that's behind steel doors. I've only ever seen the entrance of the Cave—a nickname since before my time—because all us kids do it in the summer: take our bikes to the door, dare each other to pedal up and knock. Not many people actually work up the guts to do so, but I have. Not with anyone else, though. It was in the snowstorm; it took me a couple hours to walk there. It was after Mom died, and Dad wasn't picking up his phone. I beat on that door for fifteen minutes until it opened, and there he was, warm as can be, totally clueless. But that's all I've seen. Behind him was a long driveway and then another steel door. Like an air lock; I bet the two doors are never open at once.

Dad doesn't talk about work; I've just come to accept it. Everyone has. He goes into the mountain and then comes home. He makes me lunches and watches my swim meets. He only admits that his work is classified, that he programs code for the government; my dad says the mountain helps keep their electronics cold. But he also says that the code he programs is boring, basic stuff. I believe him. Why shouldn't I?

“Why are you here?” my dad asks again, this time through gritted teeth. And suddenly I realize, just as my dad already knew, that Blake Sutton is not here to see me.

Mr. Sutton raises his hands, palms up, in a shrug. “You
know
why I'm here . . .” He pauses, taking in my father, then looks at me and smiles again. “To interview your beautiful daughter, of course. What a story! Falling into that well must have been incredibly terrifying.” His voice has taken on a familiar tone, one I've heard dozens of times, almost baby-talk. It's the buildup to the Question. And here it comes: “I have to ask, Mia. What is the first thing you remember?”

I have it all in my head. I've said it enough that sometimes, for no reason at all, I find myself rehearsing the speech. In bed, walking to class, in the pool. But before I even have a chance to open my mouth, Dad blurts out, “Mr. Sutton, I think you should go.”

The reporter shakes his head sadly and points at my dad. “Testy, isn't he?” he says to me, like it's a joke and I'm on his side. I've never seen Dad like this, and I feel helpless and uncomfortable, itchy and unable to scratch. “The thing is, Mia, your father's right. I shouldn't be here. I should be in the Cave right now, granted a ‘tour'”—he actually uses air quotes—“of Fenton Electronics, as I have requested so many times before. I'm sorry to use you this way. Your story really
is
quite incredible.”

“I don't get it,” I say—I can't help myself. “Dad, what does he mean?”

“I mean,” Mr. Sutton says, answering for him, “that Fenton Electronics has some pretty big secrets, and it is my job
as a reporter
to make sure the doors of the Cave are as wide open and forthcoming to the public as they ought to be.” He gesticulates with his hands held apart in front of his face, as if he were describing a huge fish he'd caught. Then he stands and gathers his bag and the heavy jacket that he's laid on another chair and heads for the door, but stops and turns back to us. “Did you know, Mia, that I've been trying to get into the facility for years now? That I've been stonewalled the entire time? No interviews, no responses. But there's a time limit to how long they can keep this up. And
that's
the reason I'm here. To let your father know that if he doesn't grant me access by this weekend, I'll have to make it happen by other means.” He opens the door and steps through, staring intensely at Dad. There's a vein that has snaked its way onto his forehead, slithering up under his receding hairline. I swear his lips glisten, as if they were soaked in spit. “Maybe, Mr. Kish, I'll bring young Mia with me to show her what her daddy really does.”

Dad's out of his chair in a flash, but Mr. Sutton closes the door in his face. He moves to the doorknob, but I call out, “Dad!” and he freezes. He stands there for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching, his body heaving. Unlike the reporter, Dad's in slacks and a tie, his undershirt peeking through the thin white cotton of his button-down. There's a thick line of sweat running down his back, even though it's winter and the room is chilly.

“What's going on? What's he talking about?”

One thing my father has always been is quick to smile, and quick to forget—or hide—his anger. He turns to me and does just that: his forehead smooths, and his bushy eyebrows lose their furrow. He seems old, suddenly, as if his hair went from salt-and-pepper to gray instantly and the bags under his eyes became permanent and not just about his recent spate of late nights. Dad's always seemed young for his age, looking late thirties when he's really in his fifties, but at the moment, he projects
old
and a sort of helplessness I don't like being witness to.

“Oh, Mia,” he says, his voice tired and even a little bit sad. “He's just some crackpot conspiracy theorist. He's been trying to get in for years, writing letters, leaving threats in our mailbox, calling the sheriff. Of course we have secrets, but you know that. We handle government contracts, which necessitate a certain level of secrecy.”

“But what makes your company so special?” I ask. “I mean, why here?”

Dad mulls this over. He
has
been coming home late and devoting more time to the job. I know because he's never home when I call. He gets obsessive, and it's tough because I live here at Westbrook, on campus, and I can't be home to make him dinner and take care of him. When I don't have a swim meet, I visit him on weekends, and I often find the house a mess, delivery boxes everywhere and laundry needing to get done. But now something's worse. I have the feeling that, even though he's staring right at me and talking directly to me, his mind is back in his lab. He's fidgeting, ready to leave. I've never seen it this bad. The reporter must have really spooked him.

“Dad?” I ask again, vying for his attention. I imagine the pages I've seen lying on the kitchen table. The notes. The blueprints. Does he actually keep state secrets out for me to see? No idea what they're for, of course, but I'd be an idiot if I couldn't take a shot in the dark: “Is it about those computer chips you're designing?”

He jolts, shocked. I definitely have his attention now.

“What are you talking about?”

“What?” I say, a little embarrassed at being so forward. “You leave your paperwork around the house. Who do you think cleans it up?”

“Well,” he finally says, not without some reluctance, “custom programming for microscopic analysis is one thing.”

I get a thrill hearing this; my dad programs top-secret computer chips? But for what, microscopes?

“But that's not what this guy's talking about,” he says, going on. “I don't like that he's here speaking to you as a way to get to me.” Dad comes close, takes me by the shoulders and looks me in the eyes. Whenever he does this, he looks first at my left eye, then my right, back and forth and back and forth, and it's superdistracting. “Mia, listen . . . if he calls you and tries to set another interview up, don't let him. Stall him and let me know, okay?”

“Relax, Dad. I wouldn't anyways; he's really strange. And I won't even be around. I've got my race in Durango this weekend. Remember?” I don't bother mentioning my birthday on Sunday. It will just give him something else to forget about.

He pauses, then smiles. “Right, right. Okay, great. Just trust me on this one, okay?”

I nod, feeling a tremor of fear flutter in my stomach. Why
would
this reporter stalk me to get to my dad? I think of his muddy shoes and imagine him staking out the Cave, watching my father come and go. “Are you sure you shouldn't call the cops on him or something?”