When I finally get him to our flat I spread a few blankets on the floor and roll him onto them. He retches again but his stomach’s empty and nothing comes up. As carefully as possible I peel the frozen clothes from his body, his skin now a chilly pale blue.

He pulls himself into a ball, shivering, and I pile more blankets on top of him and drag him closer to the stove. For now he seems content to let sleep draw him under and I toss wood on the fire and then just stand there, staring at my sister and Elias, wondering what to do next.

Wondering how I’m going to keep them alive.

There’s always been sickness in the City. Several years ago a flu raged through, decimating the population. I’d been one of the afflicted and Elias traded almost everything he had—food credits, blankets, his nice boots, oil and a lantern—for the herbs to bring down my fever. He later told me he sat by my bed for a week, his hand against my chest when he slept to make sure I kept breathing.

I look at his body now, at the way his cheekbones angle under the skin. My sister’s the same way, skin wan and hair lank. I wonder how either of them can be strong enough to survive this kind of fever for a week.

I let myself fall into a chair and sit, counting the number of times their chests rise and fall. I watch their eyelids flutter and lips mumble words that never become clear. The moaning of the horde swims through the window, wrapping around us all—calling to me.

All I can think is, What happens if I can’t save them? What if it’s just me in this building alone until I can’t survive any longer? Of all the ways I imagined the world would end, this was not one of them.

I lean over, tucking my forehead into my knees, and cover my ears with my hands. I can no longer hold back the tears and I cry, letting the fear shake through me.

I spend the day waiting for Catcher and trying to coax Elias and my sister to drink slushy snow, trying to feed them broth they can’t stomach. A few times they wake up but when I talk to them, they don’t seem to recognize me.

My sister cries out for her mother, moaning the name Mary, and all I can do is hold her hand and tell her it will be okay even though I’m not sure it will be.

After a while, the flat feels too hot, a sickly sweet smell that mixes with the odor of damp blankets drying by the fire, and I can barely handle it anymore. I was able to haul a mattress into the room and get them onto it and they’re both deep asleep, her arm tucked in his.

I drag myself up to the roof, welcoming the freezing air that refreshes my lungs. The night’s deep and clear, the moon not yet risen to hide the scattering of stars beating a rhythm of light from millions of years ago.

There are fewer survivors’ fires burning on roofs around the City. I try not to think about what this means and light my own small fire, then pull a tub of snow near. As it melts I run my hands over the blankets and quilts I brought to wash, most of the seams frayed and so worn they fall apart in my fingers. I just sit there staring at the scraps, wondering if it’s worth trying to rework them into another quilt. Wondering if any of this will even matter in a few days.

Is this what it was like in all those other cities and towns when the Return hit? All the half-finished products of people’s lives: laundry still hanging on someone’s line, a half-read book tucked into the corner of an old chair, a letter partially written or a painting almost but not quite finished.

I think back to my sister asking me what I’d do if I knew this was the end. I close my eyes and remember the feel of Catcher’s lips against mine. That instant when he gave in and let himself fall into me.

I want that moment again. Over and over. I want that to be my life.

I stare at the picture I drew of Catcher on the shed wall, mostly washed away now from the wind and snow. There are still some parts left—the outline of a flower, a hand clutching a bunch of balloons that have all run together.

Pulling a charred stick from the fire, I draw in some of the faded pieces, tracing the edge of a face here, mending the fence there. I start to outline the mass of balloons, to give each one shape again, when I pause.

The charcoal at the end of my stick crumbles under the pressure of my hand, leaving a long dark smudge. If only we could fly, I think.

It seems way too stupid to be a possibility, but even so, I walk back to the fire and the blankets scattered about, running the fabrics through my hands. When I find one with a tight weave that isn’t too heavy, I rip apart the seams until I have a decent-sized square.

I pull down the wire we’d used to hang laundry and twist it into an approximation of a ball. After tying the fabric to the wire frame I balance it in my hand, a little hollow balloon open on one end.

Figuring out how to get the hot air inside and keeping it there is more difficult. I stare at the charred embers of the fire for a while and finally I just make a small basket from the leftover wire and stuff a bit of fabric in the bottom. On top of that I pile a few embers and twigs. The entire concoction begins to smolder and spew smoke into the dome of fabric.

I hold my breath, waiting. Slowly at first and then faster and faster the balloon lifts from my hand. The breeze from the river catches it, carrying it through the night sky, and I give a whoop as excitement buzzes through my veins.

It hovers there, a bright spark in the sky like a star. A burst of light in the darkness of the City before the little flame powering it extinguishes and the entire contraption tumbles into nothingness.

Feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks—years!—I gather the unwashed blankets and carry them back down to the flat, plans for getting off the island floating through my mind.

Chapter XXXV

In the middle of the night my sister stops breathing. I grab her shoulders and shake her and scream at her that she’s not allowed to die, that she promised me she’d survive. As if obeying my command, she sputters and coughs and chokes and resumes her ragged inhalations.

But I can’t sleep again. I can’t stop staring at her chest, watching the rise and fall of it. Afraid that somehow I’m the one in charge of whether she takes her next breath and terrified that if I look anywhere else, even for a moment, she’ll slip away from me.

I pull my chair closer to the mattress, scraps of old clothes and blankets littering the floor around me. Using my sister’s quilting box, I sew the lengths of fabric together, stitching the seams as tight as I can, my movements keeping time to the pattern of her breaths.

For the millionth time I wish I were her. Not because of her smooth skin and easy life but because I’m afraid of failing her. I’d rather it be me on the bed slowly letting go of life. Because that means my sister could still hold on to hers.

When morning breaks and Catcher still hasn’t come, I know he hasn’t found a way out of this place. I know he’s not coming back anytime soon.

I know what I have to do.

I take the machete and sharpen the blade as best as I can. I make sure both Elias and my sister are tucked tightly under blankets and then add more wood to the stove. It takes a while for me to force myself to leave them but finally, I do.

Outside it’s a brilliantly clear blue day, the sky so sharp it stings my eyes. Under my feet the snow crunches, a thin layer of ice giving way to smooth softness underneath. By the time I reach the main building, my pants are damp up to my knees and I’m shivering but I don’t care.

Inside my steps echo along cold walls, my breath puffs of clouds leading the way. I pass the map room, pausing only to see if anything’s changed, but it still looks the same.

I expected to find the building bustling or at the very least a Recruiter or two wandering the hallways, but there’s no one. Just an eerie silence that makes my heart sound too loud. It isn’t until I round a corner deep in the bowels of the headquarters that I understand where everyone is.

Then I hear the shouting, the moaning, the sound of someone struggling against metal cages. There are few windows to give natural light so the hall’s dim, shadows hovering along the creases between wall and floor. I close my eyes and wait for the scream of surrender. Listen to the pleas for mercy.

I grip the machete tighter, wondering if that’s what they’ll do to me if they find me. Knowing that my death would mean they’d have to find a way to save Elias and my sister. As they keep reminding us, they need at least one of us alive to tether Catcher. If I die, they have no choice but to save the others.

As carefully as possible, I double back and start searching. I pass barren rooms with nothing but dust and sometimes an old desk or a broken chair. It takes a while and my nervousness causes me to sweat, every sound making me hesitate and my senses tingle. I don’t know how long the sacrificed will last in the cage—how much time I have before someone gets bored and stumbles upon me.

Finally I find a storage room, crooked shelves stacked with baskets of food and supplies. I grab an old lantern by the door and light it, start rifling through everything. In the corner I find pouches of dried herbs and plants. One by one I sniff them, pouring the contents into my hands and trying to recall what will bring down a fever. Yarrow? Bloodroot? Coriander? I squeeze my eyes closed tight, trying to remember what Elias purchased for me when I was sick, what it looked and smelled like.

Frustrated, I just give up and shove everything into my pockets, then ease back into the hallway. As I walk to the exit a light sort of fluttery feeling starts to tickle in my stomach—a small sense of relief that everything will be okay.

When the door to the outside appears I get lax and stop straining for every noise. And so I’m utterly surprised when fingers clamp around my arm, twisting me back until I thump against the wall.

It’s a tall broad-shouldered Recruiter with brown hair tucked behind his ears and dark eyes. He smiles, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “This is unexpected,” he says, his light tone almost flirtatious.

“I was looking for something,” I say nonchalantly, trying not to sound guilty.

He tilts his head to the side. “What’s that? Or should I say who’s that?” He winks almost awkwardly. I start to relax, thinking maybe I’m not going to be in trouble. That maybe I can talk myself out of this. After all, it’s not like I’m not allowed to wander around the island, I just haven’t that often.

“A few supplies for Elias,” I say with a shrug, hoping the mention of another Recruiter will ease my way out of here.

He nods and is about to push open the door for me when he notices the machete gripped so tightly in my hand that the skin around my knuckles is white. Before I can say or do anything he jerks his knee into my wrist, slamming it hard against the wall. There’s a bright pain and then my fingers tingle, go numb. The machete clatters to the floor and the Recruiter places his foot over the flat of the blade.

“It’s not polite to bear weapons indoors,” he says, grabbing my arm.

I glance at the doorway leading outside, my escape so close. “I—I just—”

He jerks me from the wall and shoves me down the hallway so hard that I stumble, falling to one knee. As I start to right myself, one of the packets of herbs slips from my overflowing pockets and lands on the floor with a quiet thump.

He leans in, trying to see what I’ve taken, and I kick out, catching the side of his knee with my foot and feeling it buckle. He screams, eyes clenched shut and hands reaching for his leg, then I swing my arm at his face. His head whips back and slams against the wall, and he slides to the ground, whimpering and dazed.

His knee’s bent at an unnatural angle and I back away from him, shocked at my own violence. At what I’ve done. I’m just squatting and reaching for the packet of herbs when a voice calls out.

I look up. Conall’s running toward me. My heart sinks and I push myself into a sprint, bolting for the exit.

He shouts for me to stop, and right when I reach the door he throws his weight at me, flinging me outside into the blinding cold. I topple to the ground and I’m already trying to reason with him. “My sister and Elias are really sick.” I’m shaking my head. “I need to bring down their fevers. I need—”

Conall’s staring at the packets of herbs spread out around me. My machete’s still inside where the other Recruiter knocked it from my hand. I’m defenseless and Conall’s eyes are murderous.

I throw up my hands protectively, knowing he likes to see me cower. “Look, they’re sick and I—”

He cuts me off again, pawing at me until he’s pulled more herbs from my pocket, all of them falling to the ground. His eyes are wide, rage shimmering from them. “I can’t believe you’d just come in here and steal from us. After all we’ve done to take care of you.” He grabs my arm and shoves it up behind me, dragging me back inside the headquarters.

I struggle against him, trying to bash his face with my head and lashing out with my feet. “I’m just trying to take care of them,” I shout. “I didn’t know what I’d need. I wasn’t going to take it all.”

But he either isn’t listening or doesn’t care. He drags me down the twisty hallways and my stomach floods with apprehension when I hear the echoes of chants and cheers growing louder. Beads of sweat trickle down my chest as I fight harder against his grasp and he only grips me tighter.

“I didn’t mean anything,” I beg, truly terrified of what he’s about to do to me. “I’m sorry. I really am.” I hear my voice cracking and hate the sound of my own weakness.

He doesn’t hesitate but slams me through the door into the auditorium. The benches are emptier than they’d been the last time I saw this place. A few have Recruiters stretched out on them, somehow sleeping through the surrounding chaos.

About a dozen men are still awake, clapping and shouting as a clearly exhausted short-haired Souler woman stumbles around the cage while two Unconsecrated men doggedly follow her. Blood covers the woman’s arms and tattered gray tunic and pools over the floor, making a squishy splash with each step she takes.