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"You see, Hayden? You see what you started?"
"Yes!" Hayden says excitedly. "It looks like we're about to have our own little Heartland War. Pity it's too dark for us to watch it."
"If you want my opinion, you're both wrong," says Diego. "The way I see it, it's got nothing to do with all of that. It has to do with love."
"Uh-oh," says Hayden. "Diego's getting romantic. I'm moving to the other end or the crate."
"No, I'm serious. A person don't got a soul until that person is loved. If a mother loves her baby—wants her baby—it's got a soul from the moment she knows it's there. The moment you're loved, that's when you got your soul. Punto!"
"Yeah?" says Connor. "Well, what about all those babies that get storked—or all those kids in state schools?"
"They just better hope somebody loves them some day."
Connor snorts dismissively, but in spite of himself, he can't dismiss it entirely, any more than he can dismiss the other things he's heard today. He thinks about his parents. Did they ever love him? Certainly they did when he was little. And just because they stopped, it didn't mean his soul was stolen away . . . although sometimes to admit that it felt like it was. Or at least, part of it died when his parents signed the order.
"Diego, that's really sweet," Hayden says in his best mocking voice. "Maybe you should write greeting cards."
"Maybe I should write them on your face."
Hayden just laughs.
"You always poke fun at other people's opinions," says Connor, "so how come you never give your own?"
"Yeah," says Emby.
"You're always playing people for your own entertainment. Now it's your turn. Entertain us."
"Yeah," says Emby.
"So tell us," says Connor, "in The World According to Hayden, when do we start to live?"
A long silence from Hayden, and then he says quietly, uneasily, "I don't know."
Emby razzes him. "That's not an answer."
But Connor reaches out and grabs Emby's arm, to shut him up—because Emby's wrong. Even though Connor can't see Hayden's face, he can hear the truth of it in his voice. There was no hint of evasion in Hayden's words. This was raw-honesty, void of Hayden's usual flip attitude. It was perhaps the first truly honest thing Connor had ever heard him say. "Yes, it is an answer," Connor says. "Maybe it's the best answer of all. If more people could admit they really don't know, maybe there never would have been a Heartland War."
There's a mechanical jolt beneath them. Emby gasps.
"Landing gear," says Connor.
"Oh, right."
In a few minutes they'll be there, wherever "there" is. Connor tries to guess how long they've been in the air. Ninety minutes? Two hours? There's no telling what direction they've been flying. They could be touching down anywhere. Or maybe Emby was right. Maybe it's piloted by remote control and they're just ditching the whole plane in the ocean to get rid of the evidence. Or what if it's worse than that? What if . . . what if . . .
"What if it's a harvest camp after all?" says Emby. Connor doesn't tell him to shut up this time, because he's thinking the same thing.
It's Diego who answers him. "If it is, then I want my fingers to go to a sculptor. So he can use them to craft something that will last forever."
They all think about that. Hayden is the next to speak.
"If I'm unwound," says Hayden, "I want my eyes to go to a photographer—one who shoots supermodels. That's what I want these eyes to see."
"My lips'll go to a rock star," says Connor.
"These legs are definitely going to the Olympics."
"My ears to an orchestra conductor."
