The Line

One last pickup

There was nothing but dark, sparkling sea all around them.

Juan wanted to dip his hand into it and trap its velvety tepidness between his fingers. Tepidness. He would miss that, he was sure of it.

But something was wrong.

Flynn made a frown as he leaned onto the steering wheel, shoulders rigid and too straight, lips crushed into each other.

Juan called for him.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Flynn muttered, possibly in reply.

"No. No, it wasn't." Why was Flynn acting like this? Should Juan be worried? Looking over at Flynn, yes, he was worried. He couldn't help it. "It doesn't change the plan, does it? We're still leaving today?"

Flynn nodded slowly and sighed.

Sensing a potential breakthrough, Juan went on, slowly, "I wonder who'll do the pickups after we're gone."

Flynn couldn't hide his smile. "Not us. Isn't that all that matters? Seriously, isn't it? I can't wait to be gone."

"But I think... I think I'm going to miss the Line."

Flynn was rigid again. "Not too much, Juan, I hope?"

"No. Just a little bit. I think."

"I won't miss this," Flynn said strongly. "I want heat. I want..." He shook his head, losing the thought. "I want everything, and in here I get nothing."

"You're sure you won't miss it? Not even a little bit?"

Flynn stared off ahead, toward the treeless strip of island that had appeared on the horizon--one of the Line's two welcome mats, and a marker for the northern side of the forcefield.

"No," he lied. "I will never miss this."

"I wish I could say the same."

"You will--eventually. You won't miss the Line forever, not once you have a real life." One last pickup, Flynn thought, clenching his jaw. "Anyway, let's see who the court's delivered today."