“You are unbelievable!”

“And you’re clearly insane.”

Her mouth falls open. Literally falls open. And for a second she looks so angry I think she might actually rip the throat out of my body.

I backtrack.

“Okay, I’m sorry—you’re not insane—but twenty minutes ago you were accusing me of being in love with my best friend, so, to be fair, I think my feelings are warranted.”

“You were looking at her like you were in love with her!”

“Jesus Christ, woman, I look at you like I’m in love with you!”

“I— Wait. What?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Nothing. Never mind. I have to go.”

“Kenji—”

But I’m already gone.

Three

When I get back to my room I shut the door and sag against it, sinking to the floor in a sad, pathetic heap. I drop my head into my hands and, in a jarring moment, I think—

I wish my mom were here.

The feeling sideswipes me so fast I can’t stop it in time. It grows quickly, spiraling out of control: sadness breeding sadness, self-pity circling me mercilessly. All my shitty experiences—every heartbreak, every disappointment—choose this minute to tear me open, dining out on my heart until there’s nothing left, until the grief eats me alive.

I crumble under the weight of it.

I duck my head into my knees, wrap my arms around my shins. Shocks of pain unfurl in my chest, fingers breaking through my rib cage, closing around my lungs.

I can’t catch my breath.

At first, I don’t feel the tears running down my face. At first I just hear my breathing, harsh and gasping, and I don’t understand the sound. I lift my head, stunned, and force out a laugh but it feels foreign, stupid. I’m stupid. I press my fists against my eyes and grit my teeth, driving the tears back into my skull.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.

I feel off, unbalanced. Aching for something. I’m losing sight of my purpose, my sense of direction. I always tell myself that I’m fighting every day for hope, for the salvation of humanity, but every time I survive only to return to yet more loss and devastation, something comes loose inside of me. It’s like the people and places I love are the nuts and bolts keeping me upright; without them, I’m just scrap metal.

I sigh, long and shaky. Drop my face in my hands.

I almost never allow myself to think about my mom. Almost never. But right now, something about the darkness, the cold, the fear, and the guilt—my confusion over Nazeera—

I wish I could talk to my mom.

I wish she were here to hold me, guide me. I wish I could crawl into her arms like I used to, I wish I could feel her fingers against my scalp at the end of a long night, massaging away the tension. When I had nightmares, or when Dad was gone too long looking for work, she and I would stay up together, holding each other. I’d cling to her and she’d rock me gently, running her fingers through my hair, whispering jokes in my ear. She was the funniest person I ever knew. So smart. So sharp.

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.