Why Won't You Stay Dead

The cut on his palm was gone.

Ethan noticed it while he was eating breakfast. Yesterday it had been deep enough to need stitching. He had skipped the stitching because the medical staff here made him uncomfortable in a way he had learned not to show. This morning the skin was smooth. Unbroken. Like the cut had never happened.

He pressed his thumb into the spot and felt nothing.

He put his fork down and looked at his hand for a moment. Then he picked his fork back up and finished eating. There was nothing useful about sitting with it. It had been happening for eight months in small ways that he catalogued in his head and said nothing about to anyone. A bruise gone overnight. A fever that lasted two hours instead of two weeks. Reflexes that caught things before his eyes had finished processing them.

He said nothing because saying something meant answering questions he didn't have clearance to ask himself.

The facility had sixteen rooms on his floor. He had counted them in the first week. He had also counted the security rotations, the number of staff who carried keys versus keycards, and the three points on the eastern corridor where the camera coverage had a gap of approximately four seconds. He had done all of this without deciding to. His brain just processed environments now the way other people processed conversations.

That had started eight months ago too.

Three weeks ago a doctor had signed a form that said Ethan Cole was medically cleared for release. Nobody had come to release him. He was not surprised. Ethan Cole's file had been closed four years ago. His death certificate existed in a government database under a classification level that required two separate authorizations to access. Releasing him meant acknowledging he existed. Acknowledging he existed meant explaining what had been done to him in this facility for the past four years.

Nobody wanted to explain that.

So he waited. He ate his breakfast. He did his morning run in the yard and felt his body move the way it moved now, faster and more precisely than it had any right to, and he came back inside and showered and sat at the small desk in his room and read whatever books the staff left for him.

He was good at waiting. He had been good at it before. The program had made him exceptional at it.

At nine fifteen the door to his room opened.

The man who walked in was not military. Civilian suit. Grey. Expensive but not showy. Government face. The particular blankness of someone trained to give nothing away in their expression while they were deciding what to give away in their words. He was carrying a folder and he sat down in the chair across from Ethan's desk without being invited and put the folder on the table between them.

Ethan's name was on the front of it. His real name.

"Mr Cole," the man said. "I'm here to tell you that you're free to go."

Ethan looked at the folder. "When."

"Today. Now if you want."

"Conditions."

The man reached into his jacket and produced a single page document. Ethan didn't take it. He looked at it on the desk between them and read it from where he was sitting. Standard confidentiality language. The program did not exist. His participation did not exist. Any disclosure would constitute a breach of national security.

"I'm not signing that," Ethan said.

The man's expression didn't change. "It's standard procedure for—"

"I know what it is." Ethan looked at him. "I'm not signing it."

The man looked at him for a moment. Then he picked the document back up and put it in his jacket. "The folder is yours," he said. "Everything we could compile about the last four years. Family. Assets. Current status of—"

Ethan picked up the folder and opened it.

The man kept talking. Ethan stopped hearing him.

The first page was his father's obituary. A newspaper clipping. Small. His father had never been the kind of man who took up a lot of space in public. He had built Cole Industries across forty years of quiet disciplined work and he had never once put his name in a headline if he could avoid it.

Robert Cole. Founder of Cole Industries. Passed away after a short illness.

Eight months ago.

Ethan read the date twice.

He had been in this facility eight months ago. He had been running tests in the yard and cataloguing camera gaps and eating breakfast and waiting to be released. His father had been dying and nobody had told him because officially Ethan Cole was already dead and dead men don't get phone calls.

He turned the page.

Cole Industries. Current CEO. His uncle's name in black and white below the company letterhead. Vincent Cole. Ethan's father's younger brother. The man who had borrowed money from his father three times across fifteen years and paid it back twice.

He turned the page again.

His own death certificate. He had known it existed. Seeing it was different from knowing it. His name. His date of birth. A date of death that fell during his third month in the field before the program pulled him out of active deployment and brought him here.

He turned one more page.

A photograph.

Not his father's obituary photograph. Not a document. A photograph of a grave. His father's grave. Simple headstone. A small bunch of flowers at the base that looked recent. The grave was clean and well kept and completely alone in the frame.

His father had died eight months ago and been buried and the grave had fresh flowers on it from someone who still came and Ethan had been forty minutes away in this facility eating breakfast and cataloguing camera gaps.

He closed the folder.

The man across the desk was still talking. Conditions of release. Confidentiality. The importance of reintegration support. The program never existed and neither did anything that happened inside it.

Ethan stood up.

"Mr Cole I need you to—"

"I heard you," Ethan said.

He picked up the folder and walked to the door.

"Mr Cole." The man's voice had an edge now. Authority. The tone of someone used to being the most significant presence in a room. "I need you to sit back down."

Ethan stopped. Turned and looked at him.

Just looked.

The man stopped talking. Mid sentence. Whatever was in Ethan's face at that moment made the rest of the sentence disappear. He sat very still and said nothing and Ethan held it for two seconds and then turned and walked out.

He knew what that look did to people. He had figured it out six months ago by accident. Something in his eyes now that hadn't been there before. Something the program had put there along with everything else. He didn't fully understand it. He just knew it worked.

The corridor was empty. He walked the length of it and pushed through the exit door and stepped outside into daylight for the first time in four years.

He stood still for a moment.

The sky was wide and grey and completely ordinary. Traffic noise somewhere beyond the facility perimeter. A bird on the fence to his left looked at him and flew away.

He took the photograph of his father's grave out of the folder and looked at it.

Forty years. His father had spent forty years building something and Ethan had spent four years in a facility being turned into something the government could use and discard and in that time his father had died alone and his uncle had walked into the company and put his name above the door.

He put the photograph back.

He had one call to make. One person who knew enough to have waited for it without knowing if it would ever come.

He dialed.

It rang twice.

A woman picked up. Her voice was careful

. The voice of someone who had stopped expecting good news a long time ago.

He said three words.

"I'm coming home."