On the way home, walking slowly while Paris reads, I think that we have been left at the doorstep. One step away from discovering the key that seemed to tie everything together. My mother, the Goddess, the Collapse, Julie Bell. Diego Marquez also has his piece in this puzzle. Damn, smuggler! I'm convinced he can lead us to one of the Goddess and Priestess communities. But he doesn't trust us, and that's normal, to tell the truth. Diego will never tell us how to get to them. He protects a religion that is very persecuted in the United Provinces. If they were minimally visible, they would surely be annihilated. They have to remain hermetic to be safe. But there has to be some way in.

So, we are still lost. Paris is racing against the clock with its investigation. There's not much time left before the end of history studies at the University, which she says would be a terrible loss, though I don't quite understand it. I am further away from my mother, from the real history of my life. The only thing left for both of us to do is to travel back in time. Maybe that's the only way to dig into all the questions we have.

—The United States of America?—I repeat Paris' question loudly and slowly. —I've never heard that name in my life. No idea. You're the historian, aren't you?

—The Statue of Liberty was written by Marc L. Thompson in 139 AC. Relatively recently. It talks about the United States of America as the country that existed before, during, and after the Collapse....

—How can that be? What about the Provinces? Are you sure that book is not just another hoax? Diego Marquez is not to be trusted, even if he has treated us with benevolence this time.

—According to our History, the Provinces have existed since the Collapse. I'll have to look into it more. Surely, it contains information or some idea to get me out of this blockage.

—You know what it sounds like to me? The United Provinces of America. That nutcase changed one word, and he had his theory already set up. —I say it without thinking about it.

I avoid further reflection because my head already hurts. I focus on the moment. On Paris's soft, slow walk, on my walking beside her. On the sea. On the crowd of people and their different faces. They are free. They play sports, they swim at the beach, they take a walk. I feel strange. It is a world that is not mine but one that I am entering. I must not forget that I am a slave, I remind myself.

Although there are still a few hours before dinner, Mr. Stonecraft is waiting for us with the table set. I am too tired and need a shower to relax. Paris, engrossed in her reading and continuing to be angry with her father, runs up the stairs to her room at an incredible speed. Matt Stonecraft ducks his head and sighs as if defeated. He gives me a pleading look. I don't know what to do in these cases. I wait a few seconds for Paris to close the door to her room, and I assault Mr. Stonecraft.

—You know where she is, don't you? —Maybe Mr. Stonecraft keeps more things inside than we take for granted. I ask because it seems to be the last chance to get a clue to guide us. So we don't get trapped in the maze.

—I don't know anything... Nothing. Me, nothing. —. He shoots that excuse without thinking, off the cuff, as if it's not the first time he's said those words. I remember what Paris said about working his tail off at Tecnofield Science Company, and I understand and sympathize. They must have been hard on him. I see him look me in the eye and calm down. He takes a sip of wine. —What exactly do you mean?

—You know, her. Julie. Do you know where she is or not?

—Oh, that. Unfortunately not, Eric. I tried everything I could, at first, to get her to come back. For Paris. I tried to persuade her, to make her happy. Nothing was enough. As the years went by, I wanted to look for her, but it was impossible. Her trail was lost. As she said in that letter, she gave her life to the Goddess. There is nothing more I know of her.

—The Goddess. The Priestess. Everyone here knows them but me. So do you. —I remember the young Matt Stonecraft from the past, sitting in that bar. Committed to the slave rebellion.

—A lot of people know them, Eric, but we had to forget them. It was for the best. Now Paris has brought her back into our lives.

—Maybe she should and can help us. I'm sure there's something that...

—I don't know any more than you do, any more than she does. The world has changed so much in the last twenty years. Knowledge becomes obsolete within days. Things change, they don't stay the same. It's been an eternity since then—he remains thoughtful and nostalgic for a second.

Does that melancholy look into the past have something to do with his time machine? Is Mr. Stonecraft lying? Could he have answers to our questions? Or is he just a genius who dabbles in science? I look at him. He is devastated by this misunderstanding with Paris. Confused, too, by my curiosity. So, he just strikes me as a superb technoscientist looking to give his daughter the dream she craves. I think that if Matt Stonecraft knew for certain Julie Bell's whereabouts, he would have confessed it by now to get Paris' credit back.

Dinner stays cold. At the table, only the level of the bottle of wine has dropped. Mr. Stonecraft soon leaves for his workshop. Paris is still in her room, and I take the shower I need to relax my muscles. When I finish, I start watching soccer on the Screen, but not before swallowing several ads about the Provincial Elections. I settle into bed five minutes into the game when Paris walks in without knocking.

—You have exactly five minutes—She says.

—What? What's wrong? —She catches me totally off guard.

—We're leaving. And we have to go now. Diego Marquez has given me a book that changes my whole vision of the Collapse and our world. He knows perfectly where we can find the Goddess, and he may also know where my mother is hiding. And he is going to tell us—. She seems very determined, although I'm afraid it's going to be another trip for nothing. The smuggler is going to kick us out of the traders' camp. That's if he doesn't pull his gun on us again. Paris seems to have read my thoughts since I do not understand much—. Diego Marquez is hiding a lot more than he lets on. That rare book...The Statue of Liberty breaks all the historical schemes of the United Provinces.

—Come on, Paris, the smuggler himself has said that they were the tales of a madman, that he didn't believe in them either.

—Or maybe that's what he wanted us to believe.

—Are you sure? What did he give you that book for, then? I don't understand.

—Eric, it all fits perfectly with what we don't know, with what we're looking for. With the Goddess, the Priestess, the Collapse...

—Can you explain? —I'm getting it, but in bursts. I can't see a logical connection in his words.

—Before the Collapse... there was a world. Before ours. Something happened, and everything was destroyed by the Collapse, and it was built again. And we started counting the years from zero right at that moment. And the Goddess sent the Priestess to preach to the Earth. The Bible was written. Then, little by little, the United States of America became the United Provinces of America. Without the Collapse, there would be no Goddess religion and no United Provinces. The origin of our today is the Collapse and...the Goddess and the Priestess. It all goes hand in hand! It makes sense, doesn't it?

—It makes sense, but it may not be very real...

—Eric! Trust me! It's a big step for my research!

—This could be very dangerous for you, Paris. —. And for me.

—What does it matter? —It could be a momentous discovery in our history! For our world...

—They won't let you publish that. You're bringing together two issues that would shatter all the structures of the Provinces: their true history and a forbidden religion.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

—I know. But it's the most important thing ever discovered. I will find a way to...do it.

I stop to think about it for a moment. If what Paris says were true...If we could find a way to publish that and spread it...We could give new hope to the slaves. We could unmask the Provinces... What if my mother bequeathed me this handkerchief and her Bible for a reason? So, I won't forget! So, I would remember! And not only her... Freedom...

—There's only one way to check. To see if you're right and if it's all true—. I say to Paris, convinced.

—That's right, Eric. Another jump in time.

—And what are we waiting for? —I open my arms.

—Things aren't good with Dad right now, you know. Besides, he's still making adjustments, and I'm afraid we'll have to wait a little longer. But first, we have something else to do. Why aren't you dressed? I told you you had five minutes!

I quickly put on a T-shirt while Paris explains her crazy plan. It's crazy. I'm her slave, and I don't have much to say on the occasions when she looks so convinced. I empathize with her because if I had the slightest clue about my mother, I would exhaust every possible avenue. According to Paris, since it's not yet dark, the market on the outskirts of New America City must be buzzing. Crowds of people doing last-minute shopping, dining on fast food, strolling along the boardwalk, watching the sunset on the beach... There, at his stall, at the foot of the barrel, and as always, would be Diego Marquez, the smuggler, showing off his exotic, old-fashioned wares.

—Eric, think about it. Diego belongs to a community of the Goddess. We are both sure of that. At some point, he will have to attend their rites. That's what religions are all about. You have to attend the meetings and live small moments in the community. You have to.

—Are you saying we spy on him?

—Become his shadow. Day and night if we have to, Eric. That prick knows my mother. —I like it when Paris brings out his temper. —And you might be able to get something that relates to yours, too.

I hope she's not just saying that to give me vain hope and follow her blindly. I'm going to do it anyway. She needn't fool me. It is now that doubts are gnawing all over my body. Diego Marquez's poisonous words settle inside my brain for a few moments. I am just a slave. A property. What if it all went wrong? Would Paris get rid of me? Would she be able to do it? If she didn't, her boyfriend, Edgar Scofield, might. I'm still waiting for him. I'm not afraid of him.

—We have to keep a low profile. —She says, continuing with his plan. She puts a cap and sunglasses on me. She puts on another pair of sunglasses and puts her hair up in a ponytail.

We walk around the market, full of people. Dirty and ragged slaves, others cleaner and well-dressed, a sign that they belong to a family with more resources. I see free people, former slaves, living in misery. Families are happily dining on hamburgers and fries. Children are tasting cotton candy, and little thieves are also hungry, stealing from fruit and candy stalls. Paris stops at an ice cream stand and buys two tubs. We walk away from the market and sit on one of the benches along the promenade. It has grown dark, and a gentle breeze rises over the beach and the outskirts of New America.

—Do you know this is the first ice cream I've ever eaten in my life? —I say, tasting the mint and chocolate flavor.

—It can't be true! —She laughs as she shovels another spoonful into her mouth.

Little by little, the market empties. Waiting and watching is very boring. I sit down with Paris. I get up and take a short walk. I lie down on the bench. The night is getting cooler, and my skin is bristling from the cold. The traders dismantle their stalls and go to the camp to rest. Diego Márquez is one of the last, with the help of his son. When they finish, they leave. The remaining people parade along the promenade towards the city.

—Do you still think this is a good idea? —We are both tired, sad, and disappointed. We thought it would be easier.

—Trust me, Eric.

—It's okay.

I lie back on the bench, my head resting on her legs. Paris strokes my hair. I haven't forgotten about not crossing the line. To stay in our place. This I don't think I will. I watch her from below, scanning the horizon, looking for some movement that will set off all the alarms. However, the market and traders' camp are quieter than ever.

—Eric, Eric! —Paris shakes me because there, between her legs, I have fallen asleep. —Someone is coming!

I don't know how long it's been since I fell asleep. Judging by how cold it is, it must have been a couple of hours.

—Is it Diego? —I ask, startled.

—I don't know. I can't see. It's too dark...

I sit up and look straight at Paris. I don't want to make any sudden movements and look back. It would be too obvious. If it's Diego Marquez, the smuggler... I hear his footsteps. Paris squints to see if she can catch a glimpse.

—Do you trust me? —I say and move very close to his mouth. She nods, and I place my lips on her cheek, very close to his lips. I stay like that for a few seconds, feeling my heart beating and her through the veins in my neck.

Thus, glued together in silence, we listen as the intruder passes us by. I peel myself away from her a few inches. Paris looks at me. She is as if paralyzed, scared to death. I raise my head and see a silhouette disappearing along the promenade. We both sigh in relief. I look into Paris' gray eyes staring at me. We are still so close. She runs one of her fingers down my cheek and through my hair. I close my eyes to the touch. I would die, truthfully, to kiss her. But I shouldn't. I can't. Her fingers stop. I open my eyes.

—There. It could be him. —She points.

The magnetism between Paris and me unravels as I quietly stand up and discover she's right. A figure glides through the market, forward, straight to the beach.

—A swim?

—Eric, it's cold! Beyond the beach, there's nothing...just rocks. The cliff.

—It's all right. I'll go over and check if it's him... you stay here.

—No. —We'll both go.

—Paris, please. I'll just make less noise. If anything happens, you hide and run. Okay?

Paris nods, and I run stealthily towards the market. I camouflage myself in the dark. The streetlights don't reach that far. I try to move fast because I've lost the figure I was following. I reach the beach, and it becomes more difficult to continue. The moonlight illuminates the sea, and the crashing waves make music to my ears. I hide behind one of the small rocks that are deposited on the beach until I end up on the great cliff. I see no one. I've lost him, damn it!

Just as I want to get back to Paris, I hear someone's footsteps approaching the beach. I can see the lights of the city in the background and how the man is turning his head backward. I hide because he passes very close to me. I can't tell if it's the smuggler. He is leaving, between the rocks, towards the cliff. Where is he going? I follow him, at a safe distance, from rock to rock stuck in the sand. Beyond, there is nothing. A vertical wall, the cliff. I watch as he dives into the seawater and disappears. I count to two minutes. He has to come up for air. It doesn't. I count to four minutes. I think he has drowned. Another person appears on the beach and walks to where the previous one was. He reaches the water, and despite the cold, without hesitation, he goes into the water and also disappears.

I return to Paris. Hiding and watching as more men and women cross the beach and are swallowed by the sea. I counted eight in total. I don't know if any of them were Diego. Paris is still on the bank. I reach her height, sheltering between the trees of the promenade.

—Paris. —I whisper to her. She understands that something is happening and comes quickly to the shelter of the trees. I quickly explain to her what I have seen.

—We've found it! It has to be that... the entrance? Under the sea... We have to go there. I have to go.

—I don't think it's a good idea, Paris. It's dark and cold. The sea has swallowed them!

—Don't you know how to swim?

—No, but what does that matter? In case that's the entrance to one of these communities, we don't know how to get there. We should go back in daylight. We can't risk it...

—We're so close...

—But Paris...

She looks me in the eyes for a second. I'm lost. She's going to do it anyway, no matter what I say. She sees her mother so close...I would do it too. As I'm left thinking, Paris steps forward and slowly walks through the market. I catch up with her, and we reach the beach. I take her to the place where I've seen those people disappear.

—It looks like the end of the world, doesn't it? Beyond that, according to the maps, there's nothing. Just water. Sea. —My mind can't comprehend the immensity of what Paris is saying—. Well, this time, it's my turn.

—What? No! I'm going with you.

—You can't swim, Eric. I'll just take a look and come back. That's all.

She grabs my hand, trying to convince me. She's right. I don't know my way around in the water, and without knowing where we're going, I may be more of a burden than a help. Still, despite using logic, I am surprised by Paris' decision. I am the slave, am I not? The expendable one. That's what he bought me for. It seems that Diego Marquez's words were just poison to torment my head with. I trust Paris, and she trusts me.

Paris takes off her blouse, staying in her bra, and leaves it for me. I can't help but stare at her white back, dotted with polka dots. She smiles at my rapt attention and takes her steps towards the sea. I watch her splash as the water engulfs her. She sinks. Then everything calms down again. The waves and the sand of the beach. I take refuge on one of the big rocks that cling to the cliff. I'm scared to death that I won't see Paris come out. I don't know how to handle myself in the water, but if she's not back in ten minutes, I'll have to go after her. I try to make time, keeping watch in case any more traders from the camp cross the beach. I look up at the moon, cursing. I shouldn't have let her go. If anyone should die, it's me. Paris doesn't. I think of how close we've been before when we've had to dissemble so we wouldn't be discovered. The fear had both of us distraught. I think of her words of the Collapse, the Goddess, and the Priestess. I think of my mother and death. About her research. Maybe that's not so important. None of it. Just being alive. It doesn't matter if I'm still a slave. But alive. Thoughts I wouldn't have in a normal state, I know. I estimate that only five minutes have passed. Time dilates. It takes forever.

—Where are you, Paris? —I whisper to myself.