Before I’m truly ready, I’m stepping onto the balcony with a pair of Rebels at my side. I cringe, expecting a bullet, but nothing finds us. The platform Frank spoke from earlier is overrun. Abandoned cars and broken bodies are everywhere. Some clothed in black uniforms, but nearly as many in threadbare attire. A group of citizens has been beaten into a corner. A throng of teens smash out the windshield of an Order vehicle, drag the soldiers from the car. I can taste blood in the air and see it on the streets. The world is stained dark.
A microphone is handed to me. Elijah says it will be loud enough. They’ve rigged Frank’s original setup to work for our needs.
A high-pitched whiz sounds, and a white trail blazes toward the dome. It explodes in a starburst of blue—a firework, momentarily louder than the shouting and the screams. Nearly as loud as the popping gunfire.
The noise and foreign color are enough to make people in the square falter. They look up, startled, and the wall behind the platform fills with the image of Frank’s fallen body.
This is my signal.
“Frank is dead,” I say in the brief lull of fighting.
My voice booms through the square. So loud I bet Blaine—wherever he is—can hear me. With this realization, a calm washes over me.
The people turn, trying to locate where my voice is coming from. Some spot me. Others, who have not yet seen the proof of Frank’s demise, find it on the wall behind the overrun stage.
“Some of you know me, and the rest of you probably don’t trust what I have to say,” I continue. “I’ve been called a lot of things—Expat, Rebel, a fugitive for freedom—but the truth is I’m just trying to get by. I’m trying to make it from one day to the next. Like you.”
I realize people are actually listening now. Not all of them, but enough. The soldiers who had cornered their prey pause. The boys dragging men from the Order car let their arms hang at their sides. There are fists, still, and weapons held at bay. But people are listening.
“I know how hard it can be to put down your weapon. I do. Especially when fighting seems like the only way to achieve justice. But those of you fighting for freedom have no reason to keep at it—Frank’s gone—and those of you fighting on Frank’s behalf are no longer bound by your service to the Order. Not unless you want to be.
“If this continues, we’re not destroying the enemy anymore. We’re killing neighbors. And I’m tired of fighting,” I say. “So damn tired. I want to go home. I want to start living again.”
Almost directly below me, a boy puts down a wooden bat. There are two Order members an arm’s distance from him, but he lets the bat fall from his hands like a shield he no longer needs. They look at the boy, then their handguns. It feels like it takes an hour, but they holster them.
And then the surrender spreads like a wildfire. Weapons are dropped, fists are uncurled, outward and onward. Not everyone complies. There are certain Order members shouting, and I can still hear fighting out of sight beyond the square, where people couldn’t see a screen or hear my words. But so many have chosen to surrender. They’re still watching me. I don’t know for what, so I do the first thing that comes to mind. I hand the microphone to the guard and press the Expat salute into my chest. Then I mirror the salute with my other hand, so that my arms are crossed, and both sets of fingers form a letter. E and W. East and West.
That’s when the bullet finds me.
I don’t hear it fired, but it hurts like no other when it strikes. It nicks my finger and hits my vest just above my heart. For a moment, I lose my breath.
The guards grab me before I collapse, and pull me into the safety of the building. I catch one last glimpse of the square. Already, a swarm of Order members and civilians alike are descending on what must be the shooter. Those not working to force the stubborn to surrender are mirroring my two-armed salute.
It’s beautiful, and I’m exhausted.
I could sleep for days.
I wish you were here for this, I tell Blaine silently. I think I might have made you proud for once.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I’M RUSHED BACK TO UNION Central by car. My vest is stripped off, and with the exception of an already-surfacing bruise, I’m uninjured. Elijah still suggests I see a doctor, but there’s only one place in the hospital I care about visiting.
The same medic who threw me out earlier is exiting Bree’s room as I sprint down the hall. He’s got this terribly drained expression on his face, and when he puts his hands up to stop me, I feel my chest rupture.
“Easy, son,” he says. “Easy. She’s not—”
“Let me see her!” I shout, straining against him.
He grabs my shoulders, shakes me, but I’m already deteriorating.
“I have a right to know!” I feel my knees giving out. “I don’t care if she’s . . . I have—”
“She’s not awake!” he yells. “And she’s on a lot of meds. You can’t barge in there like a madman.”
Not awake. The next breath I draw feels like it feeds double the air into my lungs.
“The bullet entered from the back and was lodged just below her armpit,” he explains. “She’s lucky she didn’t end up with a shattered rib.”
“But she’s okay?”
He nods. “She might lose some mobility on that side, but she’s going to be fine.”
I lean forward, trying to peer through the doorway. “Can I . . . ?”
“Just go easy. She’s got a long recovery ahead.”
Bree’s propped up against a pillow when I enter, sleeping. She’s wearing a clean tank, and beneath it, her right shoulder is bandaged. They’ve even seen to her pulled stitches. A fresh piece of gauze covers the corner of her mouth and a good portion of her cheek.
I move quietly into the room, sit on the edge of her bed. She doesn’t stir.
“Hey,” I say. “Bree?”
Her eyes drift open, and when she finds me sitting there, I swear she actually glows.
“Hey,” she echoes.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“You scared me, Bree.” I put a hand on her thigh and she curls her fingers around mine. “I’d have lost it if you . . . I wouldn’t have made it.”
“You don’t need anyone to get you through life,” she says slowly, like the words are a labor to produce.
“I need you.”
“No you don’t.”
“But I want you,” I tell her. “I want you in every moment. Everything’s better with you.”
“Greedy jerk.”
I shrug.
“No denying that?”