I turn.
Fenn.
He stands near the entrance to the daycare sector, his usually unshakable expression cracked open by something I’ve never seen on him before.
Fear.
“Jesse—” I start.
“He’s inside,” Fenn says quickly. “They’re evacuating in groups.”
Relief hits so hard my knees nearly give out.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
“You took your time,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.
“Sorry,” I say automatically. “There was a?—”
The ground trembles again.
Even here, inside reinforced walls, the impact carries through.
Fenn’s gaze flicks toward the ceiling.
“That thing still out there?”
“Yeah.”
His jaw tightens.
“Figures.”
The daycare doors slide open.
A stream of children and caretakers begins to emerge, guided by security personnel toward waiting transport vehicles.
I scan the faces desperately.
Not him.
Not him.
“Jesse!” I call, voice cracking.
A caretaker turns.
“There!” she says, pointing behind her.
And then I see him.
Small.
Too small in the middle of all this chaos.
Golden eyes wide, red-gold scales catching the harsh emergency lighting as he clutches his fossil-shaped rock in one hand like it’s the only stable thing left in the universe.
“Mama!”
