Their words meant nothing to me at the time, but now I get it. They were talking about the boy who didn’t come back, the boy I replaced.
Horrified, I whisper, “You’re expecting a replacement for Richelle to show up.”
Luka cuts me a glance and nods, lips set in a tight line, all traces of his grin gone.
“But no one’s coming.” I look at Jackson, who has his arms crossed over his chest and his head turned away from me.
“How do you know no one’s coming?” Tyrone asks, speaking for the first time.
“Isn’t that the question,” Luka mutters. “But you don’t answer questions, do you, Jack? You just bark orders. And step in and take over. You’re good at that, too, aren’t you?”
Jackson turns his head, saying nothing. I don’t need to see his eyes to know he’s glaring at Luka.
For about three seconds, I’m completely confused. What happened to the easy camaraderie of a minute ago? Luka’s gaze flicks to me, then away. Suspicion blooms. Their little macho display isn’t just about the number of people in the clearing. It’s about me and Jackson running together. It’s about Jackson getting to me before Luka did. At least, I think it is. I’m about to tell them to knock it off when I’m hit by doubts, unsure why I’d imagine this new tension has anything to do with me. It’s just a feeling, one without substance.
This is one of those moments that I wish Carly were here because she’d be able to call it for what it is.
The second I think that, I feel sick. I don’t want Carly anywhere near here. I don’t want her involved in this nightmare. I want her safe and happy and normal. I want everyone I care about to be safe and happy and normal.
But as I look at Luka and Jackson and Tyrone, I realize that I’m not going to get what I want because somewhere in the past few crazy days, they’ve been added to the list of people I care about.
“Four weapon cylinders in the box,” I say. “That’s how he knew.” I turn away and head over to Tyrone, who’s standing by the same boulder that he was sitting on the first time I came to the lobby. But this time, Richelle isn’t there beside him. He looks pale, sick, exhausted. I remember the way he knelt beside Richelle’s body. I remember his sobs.
“This is too soon.” He repeats what Luka said earlier, but there’s no emotion behind the words. His tone’s flat, his expression even flatter.
“Too soon?” I repeat, thinking he’s talking about it being too soon after Richelle’s death. I try to think of something comforting to offer and come up blank. I know how worthless even the most well-meaning words can be in the face of such loss. Nothing can make it better.
“Too soon after the last time we were pulled.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s spent days shouting. Or crying. I’m guessing he’s been doing some of both. “We need recovery time.” He shoots a look at Jackson and raises his voice. “They know that. They trying to kill us all?”
The question is all the more terrifying because Tyrone doesn’t actually sound like he cares.
“Who?” I ask. “Who are they?”
Jackson picks up a holster and strides toward Tyrone. “What they know or don’t know has no relevance,” he says. “What matters is that we’ve been pulled. We have a job to do. And we’ll do it.” Or we’ll die, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to. We all know it.
“Who are they?” I ask again.
“Don’t bother asking,” Tyrone grumbles. “He’ll just say it’s decision by committee.”
Jackson tosses the holster at Tyrone’s feet. Tyrone stares straight ahead, his expression blank. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror. I stared at it every morning for months after Mom died. Some mornings, I still do.
Tyrone’s broken, like I was—am—broken, the gray fog weighing so heavily on his soul, he’s barely even aware it’s there.
I’m better now than I was two years ago. At least now I can use the tricks Dr. Andrews taught me. I recognize the bricks sitting on my chest and the endless need to sigh for what they are. I feel them pressing down on me right now.
Tyrone might start to heal, in time. But time is one thing we don’t have. This is only my second mission, but I already know that it’s going to go forward whether we’re ready for it or not.
“Tyrone,” I say, moving to stand directly in front of him. I rest my palms on his cheeks and stare straight into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m hurting and I barely knew her. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.” But I can. I know what it is to mourn.
He swallows. Rage and anguish flicker in his expression. “I can’t talk about her back at home.”
“Because of the rules.”
He nods. “I can’t talk about her to anyone. They’ll want to know who she was, how I knew her. And I can’t tell. That makes it worse. I want to remember her laugh. Her eyes. Her smile.” He pauses. “She never had a boyfriend. Now she’ll never get the chance.” He looks away and whispers, “I was waiting for her to grow up. Now, she never will. I shouldn’t have waited.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”