Chapter Text
Schrödinger's Cat: (noun) A hypothetical cat who, through quantum physics shenanigans, is simultaneously alive and dead as long as it remains unobserved. As long as its true status is unknown, both possibilities are considered true.
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My name is Jake. The whole world knows my story, even if they don't care about all the details.
The war was over. We won. Or at least, the Yeerks lost.
Tom was dead. Rachel was dead. All of the Auxiliary Animorphs were dead. And a big chunk of the free Hork-Bajir colony. And General Doubleday's soldiers. And 17,000 Yeerks.
That's just from the final day of the war. How many died during the three years before?
I'd lost count. That's how many.
It was a year later. Visser One's trial was over. I was back in the United States. Specifically, I was in the cemetery that honored all the people -- or at least, all the humans -- who died in that final battle. There was a grave marker with a name here for almost everyone, whether their body was recovered or not.
Rachel had a giant memorial that had almost become a tourist attraction.
Tom had a tiny tombstone hidden within a grid of identical tombstones.
Tom's body wasn't there, just a stone slab with his name on it. His body was torn-up scraps of a snake morph on the Blade ship. By now the crew probably dumped it into z-space along with all the other trash. I didn't want to think about that . . . Not that I could ever stop myself.
I came back to this cemetery a lot. Although I wasn't here for the one-year anniversary. I was hoping to avoid the crowds. It was dusk, and the cemetery would be closing soon. I wasn't expecting anyone else to be here.
But as I walked away from Rachel's memorial and towards Tom's, I saw someone.
Their back was turned to me. They were wearing faded jeans and a big, raggedy jacket. At first I thought they were visiting a grave that was coincidentally close to Tom's. But after I walked a few more steps, I realized they weren't near Tom's grave marker, they were standing directly in front of it.
I guess I was close enough for them to hear my steps, because they looked over their shoulder. It was a guy around the same age Tom would have been. He seemed vaguely familiar.
"SHIT!" he cried.
He turned towards me in shock, his eyes widening in terror at the sight of me. He quickly backed away, but his leg hit Tom's tombstone. The guy toppled backwards, over the stone slab, and fell to the grass in an undignified heap.
"AHH!"
His leg dangled over Tom's tombstone at an awkward angle. Before I could even react, he pulled his leg away and pushed himself up onto his hands. He tried crawling backwards and away from me in a mad panic.
But then he stopped. Once he got a good look at my face, he abruptly calmed down. "Oh, it's you," he said. "Tom's brother."
I blinked. It'd been a long time since anyone referred to me that way.
He sighed in relief. "For a second there, I thought you were Tom come back from the grave to, I dunno, smite me or something."
I stared at the guy for a bit longer, and then I recognized him. I don't think I'd ever seen him in person before, but I saw him in Tom's memory.
It was four years ago, near the start of the war, back when I still had a sliver of hope of getting my brother back. During those three awful days when Temrash 114 was in my brain. By a coincidence of possibly Ellimist-induced proportions, it was the very same Yeerk that had once infested Tom. During those three days, the Yeerk showed me things about Tom. Secret things. And then in his dying hour, some of the memories he'd taken from my brother were passed onto me. I remembered certain events in Tom's life exactly the way he'd seen them. I heard the things he thought during them.
This guy was a little older now, but I was sure it was the same person. His name was Bill. He was a guy Tom had a crush on.
Before those three days, I never even suspected my brother liked guys that way.
Tom joined The Sharing in order to get closer to Bill. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that it was Bill's fault Tom was infested.
Seconds passed. He was still sitting on the grass, staring up at me. "Uh . . . You're probably wondering who I am."
"I know who you are."
"Oh. Okay . . ." He didn't look relieved to hear that.
Bill looked at me. Then he looked down at the grave marker he fell over. Then back to me. "Oh, right, you -- You came here to -- I'll leave you alone."
He put his feet on the ground and began to rise -- and then he went back down. His eyes widened and his jaw clenched. He tightly gripped Tom's tombstone for support, his knuckles suddenly white.
I stepped closer. "Are you all right?"
"Uh-huh," he said without looking at me. He was down on his left knee, keeping his weight off his right foot. His face was suddenly a little paler, his mouth a thin and tight line. "I just, I just need a sec."
He slowly tried going up again, putting his weight back on his foot. He inhaled sharply through his nose. And slowly sank back down.
I went around the tombstone and kneeled down in front of him. "You're not okay." I wasn't asking. I was using my Leader voice.
"I think my ankle's twisted, or something."
I reached towards his pant leg, but he shouted, "Don't touch it! I just need a minute."
"It might be serious," I told him. "Listen, I came here in a car. I can drive you to a clinic."
He shook his head. "I don't have health insurance."
That response confused me. "So?"
Bill gave me a look. It was actually really similar to the look Tom -- the old, real Tom, from before -- would give me when I was a little kid and said something he thought was stupid.
"If I don't have health insurance," he said slowly, "then I can't. Afford. A clinic."
I didn't understand the problem. Why couldn't poor people go see a doctor? My dad was a pediatrician. It wasn't like he only saw patients from really rich families.
Did he? I never really asked my dad for details about his job. I didn't know anything about first aid either. For years, my answer to every injury was to morph it off.
"Well you need to see someone," I told him. "You can't even stand up."
"You're not hearing me!" he snapped. "If I step into a doctor's office for any reason, they'll charge me, at minimum, five-hundred dollars that I don't have. I'll handle it myself!"
He wasn't talking to me like most of the hero-worshiping public. He was rude, but not like the Yeerk supporters who accused me of war crimes on national TV either. It was a middle ground that was weirdly refreshing.
"My family has money," I said. "I can pay for it."
He looked at me strangely. "Why do you want to help me so much?"
The simplicity of the question caught me off guard. I wasn't sure how to answer right away. I wasn't a hundred percent sure I knew the answer.
I looked over at Tom's tombstone, which he noticed. And then I said, "I need to help someone."
He followed my gaze. And then he sighed. "Fine. Take me to your car."
I helped him up. He put his arm around my shoulders and kept off his bad foot. He was older than me, but I was slightly taller. He was really light too. I supported almost all of his weight.
And like that, we slowly limped away.
(To be continued)