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—”