I shoot him a glare, but Ellison is unfazed.
“So there are varying levels of sexual exertion,” she says. “Keep it mild and you should be okay.”
“I always keep it mild.”
A laugh bursts out of me. It takes me over, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.
It feels good.
An hour later, Marcus and I are walking around camp, my hand firmly locked in his. I don’t know why I was worried he’d overdo it with walking; we get stopped every hundred steps or so by people who want to talk to him.
He’s been the hot topic around camp for the past week. Everyone knows he nearly died protecting all of us, and the Tiders are especially grateful to him for protecting the kids.
I’ve overheard dozens of conversations from people who said they knew the clone wasn’t really Marcus, and I smile to myself every time. There’s no shame in being fooled; none of us even imagined human cloning was happening on another island nearby.
“His hair just wasn’t the same,” a Tider tells Marcus. “It was so obvious.”
“And his biceps were smaller, right?”
The woman’s eyes widen. “Yes! Much smaller.”
Marcus squeezes my hand, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Thanks for the well wishes, Sammie. It’s good to be back.”
“Great to have you back.”
She beams at him, then at me, and we keep walking.
“Were you the only one the clone fooled?” he quips.
I roll my eyes. “Apparently so.”
It takes us a while, but we eventually make it to the garden. The volcano’s toxic smell has finally cleared from the air, and people are pushing wheelbarrows filled with soil and compost.
“You’re up!” Bastian, a garden worker, grins at Marcus, reaching out to shake his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m good, thanks. How are you?”
Bastian grins. “It’s the best day we’ve had in the garden for a long time. Check it out.”
He points to the far end of the garden. Marcus and I go there; what we see makes me teary-eyed.
Neat rows of tiny, bright-green sprouts have broken through the dark soil. The garden is returning. Since our seeds are genetically enhanced, these plants will grow much faster and bear more fruit than pre-virus ones did.
“What kind of vegetables are they?” Marcus asks.
I release his hand and walk to the end of the row, pulling a small wood stake from the ground and reading the words on it.
“Tomatoes on this side.” I return the stake to the ground and go pull another one. “Spinach here.”
Salads, frittatas and sautéed spinach are right around the corner. The former Tiders aren’t accustomed to eating well and always having enough, but I know the newly formed, united camp will get there.
These sprouts are visual proof of the rebirth taking place here. The volcano’s destruction will be felt by the island for generations of wildlife, but hope also blooms. Now that the two factions have stopped fighting and united, everyone here is safer and stronger.
I was surprised how many people don’t want to leave. When they found out evacuation back to the mainland was possible, a few said yes, but most said no. The mainland is still at war, and women aren’t safe there.
All of us have changed. We’ve evolved for our own well-being. And I think the island will, too. Without blood soaking its shores anymore, the island can become something beautiful.
Not just beautiful to look at—the island has always been that—but a place of nurturing and growth; finally, for everyone who lives here, a real home.
