“He seemed sober,” Taylor said. She shrugged. “I don’t know if he was drunk or crazy or just making trouble, Astrid, so don’t blame me. This is supposed to be my job, right? I keep my eyes open and come tell Sam—or you—what’s up.”

“Well, thanks,” Astrid said.

“I’ll tell Sam when I see him,” Taylor said.

Asrid knew Taylor was trying to provoke her, and yet it worked: she was provoked. “Tell him anything you want, it’s still a free…” She had started to say country. “You’re free to say whatever you like to Sam.”

But Taylor had already bounced away, and Astrid was talking to air.

ELEVEN

47 HOURS, 53 MINUTES

THE PERDIDO BEACH Anomaly, that’s what they called it on the news. The Anomaly. Or the Dome.

Not the FAYZ. Although they knew that’s what the kids inside the Anomaly called it.

The parents, the family members, all the other pilgrims who gathered in a special “viewing area” at the southern end of the Dome tended to call it the fishbowl. Sometimes just the bowl. That’s what it was to the ones who camped out there in tents and sleeping bags and “dreamed” of their children on the other side: a fishbowl. They knew a little of what was in the bowl, but the little fish, their children, did not know what was outside in the great big world beyond.

Construction was going on in the area. The state of California was rushing through a bypass for the highway. The old road disappeared into the bowl and reappeared on the other side, twenty miles away. It made a mess for the businesses on the coastal route.

And other businesses were springing up on the south side of the bowl. The tourists had to be fed, after all. Carl’s Jr. was building a restaurant. So was Del Taco.

A Courtyard by Marriott was being thrown together at startling speed. Next to it a Holiday Inn Express had broken ground.

In her more cynical moments Connie Temple thought every construction company in the state of California saw the bowl as nothing but a huge opportunity to make money.

The politicians were enjoying it all a bit too much, too. The governor had been there half a dozen times, accompanied by hundreds of reporters. Satellite trucks were packed like sardines all up the beach.

But each day Connie noticed the number of reporters and satellite trucks was just a bit smaller than the day before. The world had gone from stunned disbelief to giddy exploitation to the mundane grind of turning a tragedy into a tourist trap.

Connie Temple—Nurse Temple, as she was inevitably called by the media—had become one of two spokespersons for the families.

That was the shorthand for all those who had children locked inside the bowl: the families.

Connie Temple and Abana Baidoo.

It was easier before they could know what was happening inside the bowl. At first all anyone had known was that a terrifying thing had happened. An impenetrable energy field had created a dome twenty miles across. They figured out very quickly that the nuclear power plant was at the epicenter.

There were dozens of theories about what it was, that dome. Every scientist in the world, it seemed, had made a pilgrimage to the site. Tests had been conducted, measurements taken.

They had tried drilling through it. Under it. Had flown over it. Had dug beneath it. Had approached it by submarine.

Nothing worked.

Every species of doomsayer from Luddite to End Times nut had had his say. It was a judgment. On America’s technological obsession, on America’s moral failure. This. That. Something else.

Then the twins had popped out. Just like that. First Emma. Then, a few minutes later, Anna. Alive and well at the exact moment of their fifteenth birthday.

They told tales of life inside the bowl. What they called the FAYZ.

Connie Temple’s heart had swelled with pride for what she had learned of her son, Sam. And crashed into despair with tales of her other son, her unacknowledged child, Caine.

Then, nothing. No other kids arrived for a while.

Black despair settled over the families as they realized that it would be only these two. Months passed. Many lost faith. How could kids survive alone?

But then, the Prophetess had reached into their dreams.

One night Connie Temple had a lurid, incredible dream. She’d never had such a detailed dream. It was terrifying. The power of it took her breath away. There was a girl in that dream.

This girl spoke to her in the dream. It’s a dream, the girl said.

Yes, just a dream, Connie had answered.

Not just a dream. Never say “just” a dream, the girl had corrected. A dream is a window to another reality.

Who are you? Connie had asked.

My name is Orsay. I know your son.

Connie had been about to say, Which one? But some instinct stopped her. The girl did not look dangerous. She looked hungry.

Do you have a message for Sam? the girl asked.

Yes, Connie said. Tell him to let them go.

Let them go.

Let them go off into the red sunset.

Orsay woke with a start. She kept her eyes closed because she could feel the close presence of another person. She wanted to stay asleep and private and alone for just another moment.

But the other person, the girl, would not let her.

Nerezza said, “I know you’re awake, Prophetess.”

Orsay opened her eyes. Nerezza was close, very close. Orsay could feel her breath on her face.

She looked into Nerezza’s eyes. “I don’t understand,” Orsay said. “I already had that dream. A dream of a woman dreaming.” She frowned with the effort of remembering. It was all so strange and wispy and unreal. Like grabbing on to fog.