Not ever again.
Chapter 30
Dane Gallagher
A month isn’t long.Not compared to fourteen years on an island, counting everything in food, water, and whether you make it through the day.
But a month inside—watching monitors, tracking movement, waiting for something to come over the fence—drags in its own way.
I took out another drone last Tuesday just beyond the back fence. I moved without thinking. One shot, and it dropped like a stone.
I stayed there a while, watching. Waiting to see if anyone came for it.
No one did.
There’s a good chance this bites me in the arse later. But if people are flying cameras over our fence, right and wrong stopped mattering a while ago. I’m not losing sleep over playing nice.
The story we gave Grandad and Mum was simple: we didn’t talk to the media, so they made something up instead. The images are fake, generated by AI.
They took it at face value.
I understand why. The truth asks too much of them. It means looking at Charlotte and me and accepting something they’re not built to accept. It’s easier to believe the world has gone too far than to believe what we are to each other.
I don’t blame them. If I were them, I’d choose the easier version too. The trouble is, the easier path isn’t always the one you get.
We can’t stay locked inside forever.Those are Charlotte’s words, and she’s right.
She comes downstairs wearing gray trackies and a matching zip-up, her hair pulled through the back of a cap, sunglasses already on. She pauses at the bottom step, giving me a look.
“You’re still going to turn heads.”
“I look like I’m going to do the groceries.”
“You do, but you’re also beautiful. Both can be true.”
She pulls a face and grabs her bag. “Are you ready to do this?”
“No. Not even a little. But you’re right. We can’t stay inside forever.”
“We’ve got to face the public some time.”
“Yeah.” I tug my cap down. “You’ve got the list?”
She lifts her phone. “Let’s go.”
Grandad’s driver, Paul, doesn’t ask questions or make conversation. He just opens the door and gets us where we need to go. I appreciate that more than I can say.
But driver’s licenses are next on the list. I’m not relying on someone else to get us around forever.
I watch the city through the window. A month ago it was overwhelming—the noise, the movement, too many people all at once. It still is, but I’ve gotten better at pushing it into the background.
Paul pulls up at the car park entrance. We tug our caps down, keep our heads low, and head inside.
The grocery store hits all at once. It’s too much, too overwhelming, every aisle full in a way I’m still not used to. There are too many choices after years of taking whatever the island gave us that day.
Charlotte moves through it easier than I do. Years on the island taught her not to waste anything. She doesn’t pick up a single item without already knowing how it’ll be used.
“Eggs are still okay?” she says, holding up a carton, already reaching for another.
