God, I miss her.
Sometimes I miss her so much I think my chest is caving in. I feel like I’m sinking in the feeling, like I might never come up for air. And sometimes I think I could just die there, in those moments, violently drowned by emotion.
But then, miraculously—inch by inch—the feeling abates. It’s slow, excruciating work, but eventually the cataract clears, and somehow I’m alive again. Alone again.
Here, in the dark, with my memories.
Sometimes I feel so alone in this world I can’t even breathe.
Castle’s got his kid back. My friends have all found their partners. We’ve lost Adam. Lost James. Lost everyone else from Omega Point, too. It still hits me sometimes. Still knocks me over when I forget to bury the feelings deep enough.
But I can’t keep going like this. I’m falling apart, and I don’t have time to fall apart. People need me, depend on me.
I have to get my shit together.
I drag myself up, bracing my back against the door as I find my footing. I’ve been sitting in the dark, in the cold, in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for a week. I’ll be all right; I just need a change of pace.
James and Adam are probably fine.
They’ve got to be.
I head to the bathroom, hitting light switches as I go, and turn on the water. I strip off these old clothes, promising to set them on fire as soon as I can, and pull open a few drawers, sifting through the amenities and cotton basics Nouria said would be stocked in our rooms. Satisfied, I step in the shower. I don’t know how they got hot water here, and I don’t care.
This is perfect.
I lean against the cold tile as the hot water slaps me in the face. Eventually I sink to the floor, too tired to stand.
I let the heat boil me alive.
Four
I thought the shower would perform some kind of restorative cure, but it didn’t work as well as I hoped. I feel clean, which is worth something, but I still feel bad. Like, physically bad. I think I’ve got a better handle on my emotions, but— I don’t know.
I think I’m delirious. Or jet-lagged. Or both.
That has to be it.
I’m so exhausted you’d think I would’ve fallen asleep the second my head hit the pillow, but no such luck. I spent a couple of hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and then I walked around in the dark for a little while, and now I’m here again, throwing a pair of balled-up socks at the wall while the sun makes lazy moves toward the moon.
There’s a sliver of light creeping up the horizon. The beginnings of dawn. I’m staring at the scene through the square of my window, still trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me, when a sudden, violent banging on my door sends a direct shot of adrenaline to my brain.
I’m on my feet in seconds, heart pounding, head pounding. I pull on clothes and boots so fast I nearly kill myself in the process, but when I finally pull the door open, Brendan looks relieved.
“Good,” he says. “You’re dressed.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask automatically.
Brendan sighs. He looks sad—and then, for just a second: He looks scared.
“What’s wrong?” I ask again. Adrenaline is moving through me now, dousing my fear. I feel calmer. Sharper. “What happened?”
Brendan hesitates; glances at something over his shoulder. “I’m just a messenger, mate. I’m not supposed to tell you anything.”
“What? Why not?”
“Trust me,” he says, meeting my eyes. “It’ll help to hear this from Castle himself.”
Five
“Why?” is the first thing I say to Castle.
I burst through the doorway with maybe a little too much force, but I can’t help it. I’m freaking out. “Why do I have to hear this directly from you?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
I can hardly keep the anger out of my voice. I can hardly keep myself from imagining every possible worst-case scenario. Any number of horrible things could’ve happened to merit dragging me out of bed before dawn, and making me wait even five extra minutes to find out what the hell is going on is nothing short of cruel.
Castle stares at me, his face grim, and I take a deep breath, look around, steady my pulse. I have no idea where I am. This looks like some kind of . . . headquarters. Another building. Castle, Sam, and Nouria are seated at a long wooden table, atop which are scattered papers, waterlogged blueprints, a ruler, three pocketknives, and several old cups of coffee.
“Sit down, Kenji.”
But I’m still looking around, this time searching for J. Ian and Lily are here. Brendan and Winston, too.