Ory glanced at the iron bars across every window, crudely welded, but solid. He couldn’t have gone anywhere unless they’d wanted him to anyway. He nodded meekly at his guards as he waited, and they nodded back. One smiled. Should I show them Max’s photo? he wondered. But then he thought it was probably best to wait for this General. If things went well, they would all see the photo then, all forty of his survivors. Forty. Forty shadows, Ory tried to imagine.
The heavy wooden doors that led deeper into the Iowa swept back open then. “Attention!” another guard cried, and Ory looked up to see Malik marching beside him. And farther behind, partially obscured by the tightness of their formation, was a third man. “All rise for the General!”
Ory snapped upright, careful to keep his hands in full view, even though the two soldiers had inspected him for weapons before he was admitted inside.
“Li,” Malik said when he reached him. “I’m pleased to present you to the General of the Iowa, leader of all shadowed survivors in D.C., and commander of the war.” And with that, he stepped aside to reveal a man in a patchwork robe, flanked by guards.
There was just a moment when Ory could not place him.
“Impossible!” he gasped suddenly.
“Ory,” the General replied, equally stunned.
It was Imanuel.
“WE WERE GOING TO GO BACK FOR YOU” WAS THE FIRST THING Imanuel said after they’d finished crying.
“You don’t have to explain,” Ory replied.
“No,” Imanuel said. His expression was fierce. “I do. You have to know that we tried. We tried. The bridge was deserted when we first came across, but after we gave up trying to reach my family in Philly and went back for you, the shadowless had swarmed the area, and it was too dangerous to swim. We searched for another way for months. By that point, we didn’t think you and Max would still be there. We just didn’t think you’d have your shadows anymore. But you have to know that we tried. Paul would never forgive me if I didn’t tell you that we tried.”
“What happened to . . . what happened?” There was no need to say more.
“He . . .” Imanuel’s eyes welled up, and he shook his head. “You know how it goes. He forgot. Then he was gone.”
Ory had already known the answer, since the moment he’d realized the General was Imanuel. If Paul had still been alive, still owned his shadow, he would’ve been sitting with them now. His chest tightened anyway as he looked away, and they both stared at the ceiling for a long time.
After that, they didn’t talk about Paul anymore. Imanuel asked about Max instead. When Ory told him about her shadow, and Broad Street, and their empty, destroyed D.C. apartment, he could tell that Imanuel knew he still believed Max was here somewhere and that he could find her. He also could tell Imanuel didn’t believe it—but he didn’t say anything. Ory thought it was the kindest thing anyone had done for him since the day Hemu Joshi lost his shadow.
“Also, I apologize for the fanfare,” Imanuel finally said. “The entry presentation and all. I’d just walk in myself, but Malik makes the troops do it. He says ritual is good for morale.”
“It is good for morale,” Malik said.
The rain had started again. On the far side of the room, a corner of the wall had begun to shimmer lightly, as if weeping.
“Cozy,” Ory said.
“It’s the best option in the entire downtown. Even tops the White House,” Imanuel replied.
“There’s still someone in the White House?” he asked.
“No one important,” Imanuel said. Thunder droned, growing more distant. “It’s not really the White House anymore. They don’t want to be the president.”
Over the rest of the evening, Ory learned more. When Imanuel and Paul had stopped in D.C. after leaving Elk Cliffs, they’d managed to rally the remaining tenants in the Iowa to fortify the building. The top four floors were permanently closed now, all the doors and stairs sealed with concrete, and Imanuel and his soldiers existed on the first three floors—the lobby, the quarters, and the vault, where they kept valuables. The Red King’s stronghold, the building Ory glimpsed as he and Malik ran that was now covered in red, was the old Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library.
The door opened, and Ahmadi came in with several sheets of handwritten paper. Ory noticed that she held the stack the same way Max did, each leaf fanned between the fingers for quick perusal. “Day’s report,” she said as she handed them to Imanuel.
“Thank you,” Imanuel said. She saluted him as she left. “There are forty of us—forty-one including you,” Imanuel continued. “We used to be even bigger. When we started, there were seventy of us. Including Paul.” He sighed, but it turned into a hopeless laugh.
“Forty-one is still a lot,” Ory said. It was. He could hardly imagine it. “D.C. might be the biggest city left in the world.”
“Let’s hope not.” Imanuel looked at Ory. “Let’s hope there’s something else left, too.”
I heard a rumor once, about New Orleans, Ory almost said, but then the door opened a second time, and Ahmadi brought one more paper, some kind of updated report, and disappeared again.
Imanuel started to skim Ahmadi’s report, but then handed it to Malik. “If it’s bad news, I don’t want to know. There’s just been too much lately.”