By the time I step foot in the dining tent, it’s already nine o’clock. Ella has been gone several hours now, and I have succeeded only a little in distracting myself from this fact. I know, intellectually, that she is not in danger; but then, my mind has always been my fiercest adversary. All the day’s compounding uncertainties have led to a mounting apprehension in my body, the experience of which recalls the sensation of sandpaper against my skin.
The worst uncertainties are the ones I cannot kill or control.
In the absence of action I am forced instead to marinate in these thoughts, the anxiety abrading me more in every minute, corroding my nerves. So thorough is this excoriation that my entire body is rendered an open wound in the aftermath, so raw that even a metaphorical breeze feels like an attack. The mental exertion necessary to withstand these simple blows leaves me worse than irritable, and quick to anger. More than anything, these exhausting efforts make me want to be alone.
I don’t know what’s happening anymore.
I scan the dining tent as I head toward the unusually short serving line, searching for familiar faces. The interior space isn’t nearly as large as it once was; a great portion of it has been sectioned off to use for temporary sleeping arrangements. Still, the room is emptier than I expect. There are only a few people occupying the scattered dining tables, none of whom I know personally—save one.
Sam.
She’s sitting alone with a stack of papers and a mug of coffee, fully absorbed in her reading.
I make my way through the tables to stand in the short serving line, accepting, after a brief wait, my foil bowl of food. I choose a seat for myself in a far corner of the room, sitting down with some reluctance. I
waited as long as I could to have this meal with Ella, and eating alone feels a bit like admitting defeat. It is perhaps maudlin to ruminate on this fact, to imagine myself abandoned. Still, it’s how I feel.
Even the dog is gone.
It disturbs me to I think I might trade the relative quiet of this room for its regular chaos if only to have Ella by my side. It’s an unnerving thought, one that does nothing but magnify my childish longing.
I tear back the foil lid and stare at its contents: a single gelatinous mass of something resembling stir-fry. I set my plastic fork on the table, sit back in my seat. Nouria was right about one thing, at least.
This is unsustainable.
After finding someone to take the dog, I spent the afternoon catching up on digital correspondence, most of which required fielding calls and perusing reports from the supreme kids, all of whom are dealing with different—and equally concerning—dilemmas. Luckily, Nazeera helped us set up a more sophisticated network here at the Sanctuary, which has since made it easier to be in touch with our international counterparts. The Sanctuary has been great for many things, but there has been, since the beginning, a dearth of accessible technology. Omega Point, by comparison, was home to formidable, futuristic tech that was impressive even by The Reestablishment’s standards. This quality of tech, I realized, was something I’d taken for granted; as it turns out, not all rebel headquarters are built equally.
When I realized the Sanctuary was to be our new, permanent home, I insisted we make changes. This was when Nouria and I first discovered the depth of our mutual dislike.
Unlike Sam, Nouria is quick to wound; she is injured too easily by perceived slights against her camp—and her leadership—which has made it difficult to push for change. Progress.
Still, I pushed.
We took as much hardware from the local military headquarters as we were able, sacrificing what was once the elementary school tent to piece together a functioning command center, the capabilities of which were entirely unfamiliar to both Nouria and Sam, who still refuse to learn more than its most basic functions.
Lucky for them, I don’t need assistance.
I do my work most days surrounded by the ancient hieroglyphics of sticky children; crayon drawings of indecipherable creatures are thumbtacked to the wall above my desk; crudely formed bees and butterflies flutter from the ceiling. I hang my jacket on a rack painted in colors of the rainbow, slinging my gun holster around the back of a small yellow chair decorated with handprints.
The disturbing dichotomy is not lost on me.
Still, between Nazeera and Castle—who surprised me by revealing he was the mastermind behind most of Omega Point’s innovative tech—we’re close to designing an interface that would rival what we’d built at Sector 45.
I buried myself in work for hours, hardly coming up for air, not even to eat. In addition to all else, I’ve been designing a plan—a safer plan—that would help us bring in the assistance we need while mitigating our risk of exposure. Ella’s, most of all. Usually, this kind of work is enough to hold my focus. But today, of all days—a day my mind continues to remind me was meant to be my wedding day—
It doesn’t matter what I do; I am distracted.
I sigh, resting my hands on my thighs, too uncomfortably aware of the little velvet box still tucked into my pocket.
I clench, unclench my fists.
I scan the dining room again, restless with nervous energy. It’s still surprising to me how easily I shed my solitude for the privilege of Ella’s company. The truth is, I learned to enjoy the mechanics of life with her by my side; her presence renders my world brighter, the details richer. It is impossible not to feel the difference when she is gone.
Still, this has been a strange and difficult day.
I know Ella loves me—and I know she means it when she says she wants to be with me—but today has been ripe not merely with disappointment but also concerning obfuscations. Ella is hiding something from me, and I have been waiting all day for her to return so that I might ask her, privately, a single clarifying question that might resolve this incertitude. Until then, it’s hard to know how to feel, or what to believe.
More simply: I miss her.
I regret even relinquishing the dog.
Upon my return from the gravesite, I searched the grounds for a familiar face—to find someone to take him—and despite my efforts, I couldn’t find
anyone I recognized. There’s a great deal of work to do in the previously unregulated areas outside the Sanctuary, so it’s not surprising to see people gone; I was only surprised to find myself disappointed. All I’ve wanted for so long was a single moment of quiet, and now that I have it in abundance, I’m not sure I want it.
The realization has quietly shocked me.
Regardless, I was about to abandon the idea of bathing the animal when a nervous young woman approached me, her face as red as her hair as she stammered aloud a suspicion that I might need help.
I appreciated the effort on her part, but the conversation was far from ideal.
The girl turned out to be a part of a persistent, ridiculous subsection of people here at the Sanctuary, a lingering group of men and women who still insist on treating me like I’m some kind of a hero. I fought off my father’s supreme soldiers in a failed attempt at protecting Ella, and these well- meaning fools have somehow idealized this failure; one of the worst days of my life now fossilized in their memories as a day that should be celebrated.
It makes me ill.
They’ve romanticized me in their minds, these people, romanticized the very idea of my existence, and often objectify me in the process. Every time I looked this young woman in the eye she would visibly tremble, her feelings both indecent and sincere, the mixture of which was almost too uncomfortable to recount.
I thought she might be more at ease if I stared at the animal as I spoke, which I did, and which seemed to calm her. I told her about the dog— explaining that he needed a bath, and food—and which she generously offered to take into her care. As I sensed no actual danger from the girl, I accepted her overture.
“Does he have a name?” she’d asked.
“He is a dog,” I’d said, frowning as I looked up. “You may call him a dog.”
The young woman froze at that, at our sudden eye contact. I watched her pupils dilate as she grappled with an emotional combination too often flung in my direction: abject terror and desire. It confirmed for me then what I’ve always known to be true—that most people are disappointing and should be avoided.
She said nothing to me after that, only scooping up the reluctant, whining animal into her trembling arms and shuffling away. I’ve not seen either of them since.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that this day has been a thorough disappointment.
I push back my chair and get to my feet, taking the foil bowl to go; I plan to save the food-adjacent mass for the dog, should I ever see him again. I glance up at the large clock on the wall, noting that I managed only to kill another thirty minutes.
Quietly, I acknowledge I should accept this day for the nonevent it turned out to be—and, as it appears unlikely I will see Ella tonight, I should go to bed. Still, I’m demoralized by this turn of events; so much so that it takes me a moment to realize Sam is calling my name.
I pivot in her direction.
She’s waving me over, but I have no interest in a conversation right now. I want nothing more than to retreat, fester in my wounds. Instead, I force myself to clear the short distance between us, unable to generate even a modicum of warmth as I approach.
I stare at her by way of hello.
Sam is even more exhausted than I first assumed, her eyes held up by lavender half-moons. Her skin is grayer than I’ve ever seen it, her short blond hair limp, falling into her face.
She spares no time for formalities, either.
“Have you read the recent incident reports from”—she looks down at her papers, rubbing one eye with the palm of her hand—“18, 22, 36, 37, 142 through 223, and 305?”
“Yes.”
“Have you noticed what they all have in common?”
I sigh, feeling my body tense anew when I say, “Yes.”
Sam folds her arms atop her stack of papers, peering up at me from her seat. “Great. Then you’ll understand why we need Juliette to tour the continent. She has to make appearances—physical appearances—”
“No.”
“They are rioting in the streets, Warner.” Sam’s voice is unusually hard. “Against us. Not against The Reestablishment—against us!”
“People are impatient and ungrateful,” I say sharply. “Worse: they are stupid. They don’t understand that change takes time. Clearly they assumed
that the fall of The Reestablishment would bring instant peace and prosperity to the world, and in the two weeks since we’ve been in power, they can’t understand why their lives haven’t miraculously improved.”
“Yes, okay, but the solution isn’t in ignoring them. These people need hope—they need to see her face—”
“She’s done televised broadcasts. She’s made a couple of local appearances—”
“It’s not enough,” Sam says, cutting me off. “Listen. We all know the only reason Juliette isn’t doing more is because of you. You’re so worried about keeping her safe that you’re putting our entire movement in jeopardy. She did this, Warner. It was her choice to take on The Reestablishment—it was her choice to carry this burden. The world needs her now, which means you have to get your shit together. You have to be braver than this.”
I stiffen at that, at the surgical precision of her blade. I say nothing.
Sam exhales in the wake of my silence, something like a laugh. “You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be with someone whose life is constantly in danger? You think I don’t understand how terrifying it is to watch them step foot out the door every day? Do you have any idea how many attempts have been made on Nouria’s life?”
Still, I say nothing.
“It’s really fucking hard,” she says angrily, surprising me with her language. Sam pushes both hands through her hair before rubbing her eyes again. “It’s really, really, really hard.”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
She meets my eyes then. “Look. I know you’re not doing this on purpose. I know you only want the best for her. But you’re holding her back. You’re holding all of us back. I don’t know exactly what you two have been through—whatever it was, it must’ve been serious, because Juliette’s clearly more worried for you than she is for herself, but—”
“What?” I frown. “That’s not—”
“Trust me. She and I have had a lot of conversations about this. Juliette doesn’t want to do anything to scare you. She thinks you’re processing something right now—she wouldn’t tell me what—and she’s adamant that she won’t do anything risky until she’s sure you can handle it. Which means I need you to handle it. Now.”
“I’m doing fine,” I say, my jaw clenching.
“Wonderful.” Sam generates a smile. “If you’re doing fine, go ahead and tell her that. Encourage Juliette to go on an international tour—or at minimum, a national one. Juliette knows how to talk to crowds; when she’s looking people in the eye they believe her. I know you’ve seen it. In fact, you probably know better than anyone that no one cares more about these people than she does. She genuinely cares about their families, their futures
—and right now, the world needs a reminder. They need reassurance. Which means you have to let her do her job.”
I feel my heart rate spike. “I would never keep her from doing her job. I just want her to be safe.”
“Yes—you prioritize her safety above all else, to the detriment of the world. You’re making decisions from a place of fear, Warner. You can’t help heal the planet if you’re only thinking about what’s best for one person
—”
“I never got into this to heal the planet,” I say sharply. “I have never pretended to care about the future of our pathetic civilization, and if you ever took me for a revolutionary, that was your mistake. I see now that I have to make something clear, so remember this: I would happily watch the world go up in flames if anything happened to her, and if that’s not enough for you, you can go to hell.”
Sam shoves back her chair so fast it makes a piercing, skin-crawling screech that echoes around the near-empty dining tent. She’s on her feet now, boring a hole in the floor with the heat of her anger. The few faces still dotting the room turn to look at us; I feel their surprise, their mounting curiosity. Sam is diminutive in stature, but fierce when she chooses to be, and right now she looks as if she’s considering killing me with her bare hands.
“You are not special,” she says. “You are not the only one of us who’s ever suffered. You’re not the only one who lies awake at night worrying for the safety of their loved ones. I have no sympathy for your pain, or your problems.”
“Good,” I say, more than matching her anger. “As long as we understand each other.”
Sam shakes her head and throws up her hands, looking for a moment like she might laugh. Or cry. “What on earth does she see in you? You’re nothing but a callous, coldhearted narcissist. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. I hope you know how lucky you are that Juliette tolerates your
presence. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for her. I sure as hell wouldn’t vouch for you.”
I lower my eyes, absorbing these blows with studied indifference. My body is not unlike the moon, cratered so thoroughly by brutality it’s hard to imagine it untouched by violence.
“Good night,” I say quietly, and turn to leave.
I hear Sam sigh, her regret building as I walk away. “Warner, wait,” she says, calling after me. “I’m sorry—that was over the line— It’s been a long day, I didn’t mean—”
I don’t look back.
