Jesse tilts his head.
“Dada strong.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice unsteady. “He is.”
The galaxy is watching him.
Cheering him.
Telling his story.
But in this moment?—
All I can think is this:
We’re going to be okay.
CHAPTER 38
BRON
The compound is quieter now.
Not peaceful—nothing about this place will ever feel peaceful again—but quieter in the way a battlefield goes quiet after the noise finally burns itself out. The emergency lights still glow faintly along the walls, and somewhere down the corridor a maintenance crew is arguing over structural integrity reports, but the sharp edge of panic has dulled into something more manageable.
Something survivable.
I sit on the floor of the temporary housing unit with my back against the wall, one knee pulled up, a cheap acoustic guitar balanced across my lap like it’s something fragile and unfamiliar.
Which, in a way, it is.
I haven’t played like this in a long time.
Not really.
Not without a crowd.
Not without the expectation of applause.
Not without turning it into a performance.
Jesse sits a few feet away from me, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an impressive array of objects he has apparentlydecided are critical to his current project. There’s a dismantled toy transport, three pieces of something that used to be a chair, and his fossil rock, which he keeps setting down and picking back up like he’s making sure it hasn’t abandoned him.
He glances up at me.
“Play.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Bossy.”
He nods.
“Play,” he repeats, like that settles it.
“Alright,” I say, adjusting the guitar against my thigh. “But if it’s terrible, that’s on you.”
He doesn’t respond.
