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I stay close to Kai and Callie, Maddy and Bo, Ty and Dani. None of them have anything left. But we are all here for support, watching through the office glass those who take their turn at the computer. Gauging their reactions. Watching the emotions collide—grief, despair, happiness. Mourning, two years too late.
Kristen breaks down in tears, and Maddy runs in to comfort her, saying something to a person on the screen.
Owen is the wealthy one with a hefty hedge fund he inherited from his family, but only his mother survived the bombings.
There are cries.
And laughter.
And clenched fists.
And wiping away happy tears.
“I’m going home.”
One of them has a home.
Ty goes in with Dani, and in twenty minutes, we see him drop his face into his palms as he rocks for some time, Dani leaning over and comforting him.
When they walk out, Ty rakes his fingers through his long blond hair. Surf tank and board shorts, his tan even darker than I remember, his lean sculpted body slightly hunching—I don’t think I’ve ever seen this golden boy without a smile. And here he is—red eyes, absent stare.
“What is it?” Marlow asks him.
“I have to go back,” Ty says.
Even I halt in shock. I only spent several weeks on the Eastside, but I can’t imagine Zion without Ty. I know Dani’s family was killed after the Change. She doesn’t want to return. Why wouldhe?
“Go back why?” Marlow asks in shock.
“Raylin. There’s no death certificate for her. She is still missing.”
I lock eyes with Kai. He mouths, “His sister.”
Marlow shakes his head. “There are thousands of missing, Ty. That doesn’t mean—”
“I need to go back,” Ty insists, pacing back and forth.
“Ty?” I get up and walk over. “My dad does missing person’s investigations. Private. He has connections. He can do some research before you decide on anything.”
This is the wrong place and time to make hasty decisions. For the next several days, for Outcasts, it will be just that—catching up, reliving the horror of the Change through the stories of the survivors, and seeing their faces for the first time in two years.
I walk outside with Maddy.
“I’m staying close to them for the next several days,” she says. “They all need a medical checkup. They haven’t had any in two years.”
We stand in the sun and absently study the jungle and the manicured lawns around the Center.
I nod. “They’ll be alright. We all had to go through this.”
Maddy studies me in that intense way of hers. “You often come across as insensitive, you know.”
“Pardon me?”
“You didn’t lose family during the bombing, Kat, did you? You tend to act like the Change didn’t happen.”
Here it comes—the shaming for not being sympathetic.
“You know,” I say with a smirk—that smirk I perfected thanks to Archer, “I was twelve when my mom died. I was heartbroken. One day our neighbor saw me crying and said, ‘It’s all right. Life goes on. Your mom is in a better place, sweetie.’” I snort. “Better place, Maddy? I was twelve and thought I wasn’t good enough if my mom had to go to a better freaking place. So now millions got killed during the attacks. They expect those unaffected to mourn just the same. Guess what? Their loved ones are in a better place. I’m just repeating the words I heard too often in the past.”
