I have never written a love letter. I have never written a hate letter.
I find that this is both.
These words are for my three best friends. One who is certain never to see any of us again, and the others, who may be able to come together someday, when it hurts less, when we’ve forgiven, who might read this if I ever work up the nerve to send it.
While I never go to the barn, my feet take me to the rock often. I sit up top, right where Goldilocks rested, by the three indents my ax left. Or right at the edge that fell out from under Harry. I think about space and time and Harry’s planets, where there’s probably a boy a lot like him going on living—the same and different—and that makes me miss him a little less.
I’ve also solved the riddle of the meteorite, which is probably the first thing I’ll tell Graham when I see him again. The meteorite had an impact radius. It was just delayed a hundred thousand years.
When I lie up there, under a watchful moon, I pretend that I’m Graham and I think back about the Order of IV in the way he probably does. I linger over the ideas that moved us to fight. Their power. What we risked for them.
My pretend moves on to Viv. She considers the Order a Greek tragedy, us its imperfect heroes, fatally flawed, in the performance of our lives. She closes her eyes to conjure up the costumes, rituals, and pageantry.
At last, I think about what Harry would care most about. The just purpose of the Order. How lucky we all were to have one another. How the four of us were as much family as blood can make you. How you protect your family.
And then lastly, I try to figure out what I believe. What was the Order? A pageant? Experiment? Rebellion? Mistake? What does it matter?
All that counts is this:
The four of us met.
Loved one another.
Danced under a blood moon.
Shared our secrets, though too few and too late.
And for a time, together, our friendship was a universe.
Retrieved from the cellular phone of Harrison Rocha
Transcript and notes prepared by Badge #821891
Shared Media Folder Titled: IV, Tues., Oct. 29, 2:56 p.m.
Video start.
H. Rocha stares at the camera. Rocky bluffs rise up behind him. The sound of the ocean is loud. The camera is unsteady, shaking.
“You’re going to think that I called us off because I was trying to protect you, Izzie.” He passes a shaking hand through his hair. “You’re going to be pissed and you’ll probably call me paternalistic again.” A soft laugh. “I’m not trying to protect you. I’m trying to keep you from protecting me. I’ve got to figure out how to keep you away because I know you, Isadora. You’ll be there, getting right in the middle, stopping him. And I can’t have him stopped until he’s done his damage.
“If Graham’s holding you back, he won’t be able to pull Conner off me, once Conner’s gotten his hits in. I don’t know how else to do this. How to handle Conner. I’ve tried everything. Pretending his words don’t hurt. Striking back at him—keying that car of his. Ignoring him. Bearing it.” His eyes unfocus. He gives his head a jolt. “I’m afraid.” He’s barely audible over the waves. “No one wants to get their ass handed to them. But I guess we live in the kind of fucked-up world where guys like Conner win.
“I won’t let him, though. I’m doing this so he gets held accountable. For something. I’m doing this so that one of the guys who jumped my dad gets in trouble.” He stares at the camera. Birds call from beyond the lens. “I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. And people don’t do that enough.”
Video stop.