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"Wait till you're the one who's dying and see how you feel about it!"
"I'd rather die than get a piece of an Unwind!" Connor yells back.
The Mouth Breather tries to shout something else, but instead goes into a coughing fit that lasts for a whole minute. It gets so bad, it frightens even Connor. It's like he might actually cough up his transplanted lung.
"You okay?" asks Diego.
"Yeah," says Emby, trying to get it under control. "Like I said, the lung's got asthma. It was the best we could afford."
By the time his coughing fit is over, it seems there's nothing more to say. Except this:
"If your parents went to all that trouble," asks Hayden, "why were they having you unwound?"
Hayden and his questions. This one shuts Emby down for a few moments. It's clearly a tough topic for him—maybe even tougher than it is for most Unwinds.
"My parents didn't sign the order,'' Emby finally says. "My dad died when I was little, and my mom died two months ago. That's when my aunt took me in. The thing is, my mom left me some money, but my aunt's got three kids of her own to put through college, so . . ."
He doesn't have to finish. The others can connect the dots.
"Man, that stinks," says Diego.
"Yeah," says Connor, his anger at Emby now transferred to Emby's aunt.
"It's always about money," Hayden says. "When my parents were splitting up, they fought over money, until there was none left. Then they fought over me. So I got out before there was none of me left, either."
Silence falls again. There's nothing to hear but the drone of the engine, and the rattle of the crates. The air is humid and it's a struggle to breathe. Connor wonders if maybe the Fatigues miscalculated about how much air they had. We're all gonna die in here. That's what Emby said. Connor bangs his head back sharply against the wall, hoping to jar loose the bad thoughts clinging to his brain. This is not a good place to be alone with your thoughts. Perhaps that's why Hayden feels compelled to talk.
"No one ever answered my question," Hayden says. "Looks like no one has the guts."
"Which one?" asks Connor. "You've got questions coming out of you like farts on Thanksgiving."
"I was asking if unwinding kills you, or if it leaves you alive somehow. C'mon—it's not like we haven't thought about it."
Emby says nothing. He's clearly been weakened by coughing and conversation. Connor's not interested in volunteering either.
"It depends," says Diego. "Depends on where your soul is once you're unwound."
Normally Connor would walk away from a conversation like this. His life is about tangibles: things you can see, hear, and touch. God, souls, and all that has always been like a secret in a black box he couldn't see into, so it was easier to just leave it alone. Only now, he's inside the black box.
"What do you think, Connor?" asks Hayden. "What happens to your soul when you get unwound?"
"Who says I even got one?"
"For the sake of argument, let's say you do."
"Who says I want an argument?"
"Ijolé! Just give him an answer, man, or he won't leave you alone."
Connor squirms, but can't squirm his way out of the box. "How should I know what happens to it? Maybe it gets all broken up like the rest of us into a bunch of little pieces."
"But a soul isn't like that," says Diego. "It's indivisible."
"If it's indivisible," says Hayden, "maybe an Unwinds spirit stretches out, kind of like a giant balloon between all those parts of us in other places. Very poetic."
Hayden might find poetry in it, but to Connor the thought is terrifying. He tries to imagine himself stretched so thin and so wide that he can reach around the world. He imagines his spirit like a web strung between the thousand recipients of his hands, his eyes, the fragments of his brain—none of it under his control anymore, all absorbed by the bodies and wills of others. Could consciousness exist like that? He thinks about the trucker who performed a card trick for him with an Unwinds hand. Did the boy who once owned that hand still feel the satisfaction of performing the trick? Was his spirit still inexplicably whole, even though his flesh had been shuffled like that deck-of cards, or was he shredded beyond all hope of awareness—beyond Heaven, Hell, or anything eternal? Whether or not souls exist Connor doesn't know. But consciousness dues exist—that's something he knows for sure. If every part of an Unwind is still alive, then that consciousness has to go somewhere, doesn't it? He silently curses Hayden for making him think about it . . . but Hayden isn't done yet.
"Here's a little brain clot for you," says Hayden. "I knew this girl back home. There was something about her that made you want to listen to the things she had to say. I don't know whether she was really well-centered, or just psychotic. She believed that if someone actually gets unwound, then they never had a soul to begin with. She said God must know who's going to be unwound, and he doesn't give them souls."
