by Tahereh Mafi
I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.
I feel off, unbalanced. Aching for something. I’m losing sight of my purpose, my sense of direction. I always tell myself that I’m fighting every day for hope, for the salvation of humanity, but every time I survive only to return to yet more loss and devastation, something comes loose inside of me. It’s like the people and places I love are the nuts and bolts keeping me upright; without them, I’m just scrap metal.
I sigh, long and shaky. Drop my face in my hands.
I almost never allow myself to think about my mom. Almost never. But right now, something about the darkness, the cold, the fear, and the guilt—my confusion over Nazeera—
I wish I could talk to my mom.
I wish she were here to hold me, guide me. I wish I could crawl into her arms like I used to, I wish I could feel her fingers against my scalp at the end of a long night, massaging away the tension. When I had nightmares, or when Dad was gone too long looking for work, she and I would stay up together, holding each other. I’d cling to her and she’d rock me gently, running her fingers through my hair, whispering jokes in my ear. She was the funniest person I ever knew. So smart. So sharp.
God, I miss her.
Sometimes I miss her so much I think my chest is caving in. I feel like I’m sinking in the feeling, like I might never come up for air. And sometimes I think I could just die there, in those moments, violently drowned by emotion.
But then, miraculously—inch by inch—the feeling abates. It’s slow, excruciating work, but eventually the cataract clears, and somehow I’m alive again. Alone again.
Here, in the dark, with my memories.
Sometimes I feel so alone in this world I can’t even breathe.
Castle’s got his kid back. My friends have all found their partners. We’ve lost Adam. Lost James. Lost everyone else from Omega Point, too. It still hits me sometimes. Still knocks me over when I forget to bury the feelings deep enough.
But I can’t keep going like this. I’m falling apart, and I don’t have time to fall apart. People need me, depend on me.
I have to get my shit together.
I drag myself up, bracing my back against the door as I find my footing. I’ve been sitting in the dark, in the cold, in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for a week. I’ll be all right; I just need a change of pace.
James and Adam are probably fine.
They’ve got to be.
I head to the bathroom, hitting light switches as I go, and turn on the water. I strip off these old clothes, promising to set them on fire as soon as I can, and pull open a few drawers, sifting through the amenities and cotton basics Nouria said would be stocked in our rooms. Satisfied, I step in the shower. I don’t know how they got hot water here, and I don’t care.
This is perfect.
I lean against the cold tile as the hot water slaps me in the face. Eventually I sink to the floor, too tired to stand.
I let the heat boil me alive.
FOUR
I thought the shower would perform some kind of restorative cure, but it didn’t work as well as I hoped. I feel clean, which is worth something, but I still feel bad. Like, physically bad. I think I’ve got a better handle on my emotions, but— I don’t know.
I think I’m delirious. Or jet-lagged. Or both.
That has to be it.
I’m so exhausted you’d think I would’ve fallen asleep the second my head hit the pillow, but no such luck. I spent a couple of hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and then I walked around in the dark for a little while, and now I’m here again, throwing a pair of balled-up socks at the wall while the sun makes lazy moves toward the moon.
There’s a sliver of light creeping up the horizon. The beginnings of dawn. I’m staring at the scene through the square of my window, still trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me, when a sudden, violent banging on my door sends a direct shot of adrenaline to my brain.
I’m on my feet in seconds, heart pounding, head pounding. I pull on clothes and boots so fast I nearly kill myself in the process, but when I finally pull the door open, Brendan looks relieved.
“Good,” he says. “You’re dressed.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask automatically.
Brendan sighs. He looks sad—and then, for just a second:
He looks scared.
“What’s wrong?” I ask again. Adrenaline is moving through me now, dousing my fear. I feel calmer. Sharper. “What happened?”
Brendan hesitates; glances at something over his shoulder. “I’m just a messenger, mate. I’m not supposed to tell you anything.”
“What? Why not?”
“Trust me,” he says, meeting my eyes. “It’ll help to hear this from Castle himself.”
FIVE
“Why?” is the first thing I say to Castle.
I burst through the doorway with maybe a little too much force, but I can’t help it. I’m freaking out. “Why do I have to hear this directly from you?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
I can hardly keep the anger out of my voice. I can hardly keep myself from imagining every possible worst-case scenario. Any number of horrible things could’ve happened to merit dragging me out of bed before dawn, and making me wait even five extra minutes to find out what the hell is going on is nothing short of cruel.
Castle stares at me, his face grim, and I take a deep breath, look around, steady my pulse. I have no idea where I am. This looks like some kind of . . . headquarters. Another building. Castle, Sam, and Nouria are seated at a long wooden table, atop which are scattered papers, waterlogged blueprints, a ruler, three pocketknives, and several old cups of coffee.
“Sit down, Kenji.”
But I’m still looking around, this time searching for J. Ian and Lily are here. Brendan and Winston, too.
No J. No Warner. And no one is making eye contact with me.
“Where’s Juliette?” I ask.
“You mean Ella,” Castle says gently.
“Whatever. Why isn’t she here?”
“Kenji,” Castle says. “Please sit down. This is hard enough without having to manage your emotions, too. Please.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’ll sit down after I know what the hell is going on.”
Castle sighs heavily. Finally, he says—
“You were right.”
My eyes widen, my heart still hammering in my chest. “Excuse me?”
“You were right,” Castle says, and his voice catches on the last word. He clenches and unclenches his fists. “About Adam. And James.”
But I’m shaking my head. “I don’t want to be right. I was overreacting. They’re fine. Don’t listen to me,” I say, sounding a little crazy. “I’m not right. I’m never right.”
“Kenji.”
“No.”
Castle looks up, looks me directly in the eye. He looks devastated. Beyond devastated.
“Tell me this is a joke,” I say.
“Anderson has taken the boys hostage,” he says, glancing at Brendan and Winston. Ian. The ghost of Emory. “He’s doing it again.”
I can’t handle this.
My heart can’t handle this. I’m already too close to the edge of crisis. This is too much. Too much.
“You’re wrong,” I insist. “Anderson wouldn’t do that, not to James. James is just a child— He wouldn’t do that to a child—”
“Yes,” Winston says quietly. “He would.”
I glance over at him, my eyes wild. I feel stupid. I feel like my skin is too tight. Too loose. And I’m looking at Castle again when I say:
“How do you know? How can you be sure this isn’t another trap, just like last time—”
“Of course it’s a trap,” Nouria says. Her voice is firm but not unkind. She glances at Castle before she says: “I’m not sure why, but my dad is making this sound like a simple hostage situation. It’s not. We’re not even sure exactly what’s happening yet. It definitely looks like And
erson is holding the boys hostage, but it’s also clear that there’s something much bigger happening behind the scenes. Anderson is plotting something. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have—”
“I think,” Sam says, squeezing her wife’s hand, “what Nouria is trying to say is that we think Adam and James play only a small role in all of this.”
I glance between them, confused. There’s tension in the room that wasn’t there a moment ago, but my head feels too full of sand to figure it out. “I don’t think I understand what you’re getting at,” I say.
But it’s Castle who explains.
“It’s not just Adam and James,” he says. “Anderson currently has custody of all the kids—specifically, the children of the supreme commanders.”
And I’m about to ask another question before I realize—
I’m the only one asking questions right now. I glance around the room, at the faces of my friends. They look sad but determined. Like they already know how this story ends, and they’re ready to face it.
I’m floored by the revelation. And I can’t keep the edge out of my voice when I say, “Why was I the last to be informed about this?”
My question is followed by perfect silence. Harried glances. Nervous expressions.
Then, finally:
“We knew it would be hard for you,” Lily says. Lily, who never gives a shit about my feelings. “You’d just been on this crazy mission, and then we had to shoot your plane out of the sky— Honestly, we weren’t sure if we should tell you right away.” She hesitates. And then, aiming an irritated look at the other ladies in the room: “But if it makes you feel any better, Nouria and Sam didn’t tell us right away, either.”
“What?” My eyebrows fly up my head. “What the hell is going on? When did you first get the news?”
The room goes quiet again.
“When? ” I demand.
“Fourteen hours ago,” Nouria says.
“Fourteen hours ago? ” My eyes widen to the point of pain. “You knew about this fourteen hours ago and you’re only telling me now? Castle?”
He shakes his head.
“They kept it from me, too,” he says, and despite his calm demeanor, I notice the tension in his jaw. He won’t look me in the eye. He won’t look at Nouria, either.
Realization dawns with sudden, startling speed, and I finally understand: there are too many cooks in this metaphorical kitchen.
I had no idea what kind of complicated shitshow I’d just walked into, but it’s clear that Nouria and Sam are used to running this place on their own. Daughter or not, Nouria is the head of this resistance, and it doesn’t matter how much she likes having her dad around, she’s not about to cede control. Which apparently means she’s going to keep him from accessing classified information before she deems it necessary. Which means— Hell, I think it means Castle has no real authority anymore.
Holy shit.
“So you knew about this,” I say, looking from Nouria to Sam. “You knew it when we landed here yesterday—you knew then that Anderson was rounding up the kids. When we had cake and sang happy birthday to Warner, you knew that James and Adam had been abducted. When I asked, over and over and over again, why the hell Adam and James weren’t here, you knew and said nothing—”
“Calm down,” Nouria says sharply. “You’re losing control.”
“How could you lie to us like that?” I demand, not bothering to keep my voice down. “How could you stand there and smile when you knew our friends were suffering?”
“Because we had to be sure,” Sam says to me. And then she sighs, heavily, pushing wisps of her blond hair out of her face. There are purple smudges under her eyes that tell me I’m not the only one who’s been losing sleep lately. “Anderson had his men feed this information directly underground. He planted it in our networks on purpose, which made me doubt his motives from the start.
“Anderson seems to have figured out that your team took refuge with another rebel group,” she says. “But he doesn’t know which of us is protecting you. I figured he was just trying to lure us out, into the open, so I wanted to verify the information before we spread it any further. We didn’t want to take next steps without being certain, and we didn’t think it would be good for morale to spread hurtful information that might, ultimately, be false.”
“You waited fourteen hours to spread information that might’ve been true,” I cry. “Anderson could’ve decided to kill them off by now!”
Nouria shakes her head. “That’s not how a hostage situation works. He’s made it clear he wants something from us. He wouldn’t kill off his own bargaining chips.”
I go suddenly still. “What do you mean? What does he want from us?” Then, looking around again: “And why the hell isn’t Juliette here right now? She needs to be hearing this.”
“There’s no reason to disturb Ella’s sleep,” Sam says, “because there’s nothing we can do at the moment. We’ll fill her in in the morning.”
“The hell we are,” I say angrily, forgetting myself. “I’m sorry, sir, I know we’re not at Point anymore, but you have to do something. This isn’t okay. J led a goddamn resistance—she doesn’t want to be coddled or protected from this shit. And when she finds out that we didn’t tell her she’s going to be pissed.”
“Kenji—”
“This is all some sort of bullshit, anyway,” I say, my hands caught in my hair. “A bluff. More lies. There’s no way Anderson has all the other kids. He’s obviously trying to mess with our heads—and it’s working—because he knows we could never be sure whether he’s actually taken them hostage. This is all some complicated mind game,” I say. “It’s the perfect play.”
“It’s not,” Brendan says, putting his hand on my shoulder. His eyebrows pull together with concern. “It’s not a mind game.”
“Of course it—”
“Sam saw them,” Nouria says. “We have proof.”
I stiffen. “What?”
“I can see across long distances,” Sam says. She tries to smile, but she just looks tired. “Really, really long distances. We figured if Anderson was going to take the kids anywhere he’d do it somewhere close to his home base, where he has soldiers and resources at his disposal. And when Ella told us Evie was dead, I felt even more certain that he’d head back to North America, where he’d need to do damage control and maintain his power over the continent. In the event that another rebel group tried to take advantage of the sudden upheaval, he’d have to be here, exercise his power, maintain order. So I focused on Sector 45 in my search. It took nearly all fourteen hours to do a proper sweep, but I’m certain I’ve found enough evidence to support his claims.”
“What the hell kind of— You’re certain you’ve found enough evidence? What kind of vague nonsense is that? And why are you the one who gets to decide wh—”
“Watch your tone, Kishimoto,” Nouria says sharply. “Sam has been working nonstop trying to figure this situation out. You will recognize her authority here, where we’ve offered you refuge, and you will give her your gratitude and your respect.”
Sam places a calming hand on Nouria’s arm. “It’s all right,” Sam says, still looking at me. “He’s just overset.”
“We’re all overset,” Nouria says, narrowing her eyes at me. Anger gives her a sudden, ethereal glow that makes her dark skin seem almost bioluminescent. For a moment, I can’t look away.
I give my head a quick shake to clear it.
“I’m not trying to be disrespectful,” I say. “I just don’t understand why we’re buying into this. ‘Enough evidence’ doesn’t sound convincing, especially not when Anderson pulled this exact same shit before. Do you remember how that turned out? If it weren’t for J, who saved all our asses that day, we’d be dead. Ian would definitely be dead right now.”
“Yes,” Castle says patiently, “but you’re forgetting one important detail.”
I tilt my head at him.
“Anderson did indeed have our men. He never l
ied about that.”
I clench my jaw. My fists. My whole body turns to stone.
“Denial is the first stage of grief, bro.”
“Fuck off, Sanchez.”
“That is enough,” Castle says, standing up with sudden force. He looks livid, the table rattling under his splayed fingers. “What’s the matter with you, son? This isn’t like you—this angry, reckless, disrespectful behavior. Your harsh judgments are doing nothing to help the current situation.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Anger explodes in the blackness behind my eyelids, fireworks building and breaking me down.
My head is spinning.
My heart is spinning.
A bead of sweat travels down my back and I shiver, involuntarily.
“Fine,” I snap, opening my eyes. “I apologize for my disrespectful behavior. But I’m only going to ask this question one more time before I go and get her myself: Why the hell isn’t Juliette here right now?”
Their collective silence is the only answer I need.
“What is really going on?” I say angrily. “Why are you doing this? Why are you letting her sleep and rest and recover so much? What aren’t you telling m—”
“Kenji.” Castle sounds suddenly different. His eyes are pulled together, his forehead creased in concern. “Are you feeling all right?”
I blink. Take a sudden, steadying breath. “I’m fine,” I say, but for a second the words sound strange, like I got caught in an echo.
“Bro, you don’t look okay.”
Who said that?
Ian?
I turn toward his voice, but everything seems to warp as I move, sounds bending in half.
“Yeah, maybe you should get some sleep.”
Winston?
I turn again, and this time all the sounds speed up, fast-forwarding until they collide in real time. My ears start ringing. And then I look down, realizing too late that my hands are shaking. My teeth are shaking. Chattering. I’m freezing. “Why is it so cold in here?” I ask.
Brendan is suddenly standing next to me. “Let me take you back to your room,” he says. “Maybe y—”