People used to live here, then.
When I finally reach Ella, I take her hand, and she immediately tugs me forward, even as she’s slightly out of breath. Running has always been harder for Ella than it is for me. Still, I resist her effort to drag me along.
“Love,” I say. “Where are we?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” she says, beaming. “Even though I have a feeling you’ve already figured it out.”
“This is unregulated territory.”
“Yes.” She smiles brighter, then dims. “Well, sort of.”
“But how—”
She shakes her head before attempting to pull me forward again, now with greater difficulty. “No explanations yet! Come on, we’re almost there!”
Her energy is so effervescent it makes me laugh. I watch her a moment as she struggles to move me, her effort not unlike that of a cartoon character. I imagine it must frustrate her not to be able to use her powers on me, but then I remind myself that Ella would never do something like that even if she could; she’d never overpower me just to get what she wanted. That’s not who she is.
She is, and always has been, a better person than I will ever be.
I take her in then, her eyes glinting in the sun, the wind tousling her hair. She is a vision of loveliness, her cheeks flushed with feeling and exertion.
“Aaron,” she says, pretending to be mad. I don’t think it productive to tell her, but I find this adorable. When she finally lets go of my hand, she throws up her arms in defeat.
I’m smiling as I tuck a windblown hair behind her ear; her pretend anger dissipates quickly.
“You really don’t want to tell me anything about where we’re going?” I ask. “Not a single thing? I’m not allowed to ask even one clarifying question?”
She shakes her head.
“I see. And is there any particular reason why our destination is such a highly guarded secret?”
“That was a question!”
“Right.” I frown, squinting into the distance. “Yes.”
Ella puts her hands on her hips. “You’re going to ask me another question, aren’t you?”
“I just want to know how Nouria managed to draw unregulated territory into her protection. I’d also like to know why no one told me she had plans to do such a thing. And why—”
“No, no, I can’t answer those questions without spoiling the surprise.” Ella blows out a breath, thinking. “What if I promise to explain everything when we get there?”
“How much longer until we get there?”
“Aaron.”
“Okay,” I say, fighting back a laugh. “Okay. No more questions.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
She makes an exclamation of delight before kissing me quickly on the cheek, and then takes my hand again. This time, I let her drag me forward, following her, without another word, onto an unmarked road.
The street curves as we go, unwilling even now to reveal our destination. We ignore the sidewalks, as cars aren’t to be expected here, but it still feels strange to be walking down the center of a street, our feet following the faded yellow lines of another world, avoiding potholes as we go.
There are more trees here than I expected, more green leaves and patches of living grass than I thought we’d find. These are vestiges of another time, still managing to survive, somehow, despite everything. The limp greenery seems to multiply the farther we walk, the half-bare trees planted on either side of the pockmarked road clasping branches overhead to form an eerie tunnel around us. Sunlight shatters through the wooden webbing above, casting a kaleidoscope of light and shadow across our bodies.
I know we must be getting close to our destination when Ella’s energy changes, her emotions a jumble of joy and nerves. It’s not long before the dead road finally opens up onto an expansive view—and I come to a violent halt.
This is a residential street.
Just under a dozen houses, each several feet apart, separated by dead, square lawns. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, but this is nothing I haven’t seen before. It’s a vision of a bygone era; these homes, like so many others on unregulated turf, are in various states of decay, succumbing to time and weather and neglect. Roofs collapsing, walls boarded up, windows broken, front doors hanging from their hinges, all of them half-destroyed. It’s like so many other neighborhoods around the continent, save one extraordinary difference.
In the center is a home.
Not a house—not a building—but a home, salvaged from the wreckage. It’s been painted a simple, tasteful shade of white—not too white—its walls and roof repaired, the front door and shutters a pale sage green. The sight gives me déjà vu; I’m reminded at once of another house of a different vintage, in a different place. Robin’s-egg blue.