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I took a seat by the fire, and we ate together in silence, the horses still grazing in the grass nearby. The air between us was tense, but I barely paid it any attention. I was too busy replaying what I’d seen in my head, wondering why the hell explosions were happening inside the compound, which valued safety even above freedom. Maybe there was trouble inside the Delta. Maybe that had something to do with why they’d snatched my wife away.

Still, even if it was true, I didn’t know how it helped me, and that only stoked more frustration in me. Frustration and grief—the only emotions I felt these days—were paralyzing me, and it was infuriating. I wasn’t used to having no idea what to do next.

“John,” Kimmy sighed, irritation in her voice, and I looked up.

“What?”

“That’s the third time I’ve said your name,” she said. “You’re always so in your head now that you barely notice I’m here.”

My temper flared unexpectedly. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have more important things to worry about than your ego. Or maybe you forgot.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Stop being a dick.”

“Me?” I shot back, outraged. “You’re the one who suggested I just forget about my wife, two weeks after she was taken.”

“I didn’t say that.” She blew out a harsh breath. “Look, do you think this is easy for me? In the last month, I’ve lost Asha. I’ve lost Claire.” She swallowed hard, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve lost everyone I was closest to—except for you, you pigheaded ass. You’re all I’ve got.”

I stared at her, guilt swirling in my gut at her tears, which now streamed down her cheeks.

“And now,” Kimmy continued on a sob, “I’m scared that you’re slipping away from me, too. I’ve never seen you like this. You’re so distant, and quiet, and I can feel how deep your pain is, and it’s horrifying. I didn’t mean that we should give up on Claire. I just…I’m just so scared that we’ll fail, and that I’ll lose you, too. That everyone I really love will be gone. I’m so scared.”

A heaviness settled in my chest as she swiped at her eyes. For the first time, I felt the extent of her fear and her grief. I’d been so consumed by my own that I’d forgotten how much Kimmy had lost in such a short time.

“Kimmy,” I sighed, pulling her into my side, my arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she blubbered, turning her face against my shoulder. “For what I said. It was awful. I was just so—”

“It’s alright,” I murmured, pecking the top of her head. “I get it. These past weeks have been hell—for both of us. I’m sorry I forgot that.”

She sniffled. “I miss home. I miss Claire. I miss being happy.”

Her words struck a chord, and I focused for a minute on breathing deeply, moving from one moment to the next, holding myself together.

“Me too,” I said at last. “But remember what Granddad said right before he died, when we told him we’d go looking for the PNCs?”

Kimmy gave a sad smile. “‘You two could take on the devil himself as long as you were together.’”

I squeezed her shoulder. “And he was right in the end, wasn’t he? We did it.”

“With Claire’s help, yes,” she said, patting my hand. “Despite everything, I believe she’s okay. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you taught her everything you could,” Kimmy replied, and I leaned my head on top of hers. “And you loved her well. You gave her a reason to finally believe that people could stay. That she was worth fighting for.”

Her words filled me with so much grief that I couldn’t speak. She seemed to understand, though, because she threaded her fingers through mine and squeezed my hand tight.

Chapter 3

Claire

All the world was a blinding white.

White walls, white floors, a white landscape of blankness in a windowless room. Dim, ever-present fluorescent lights illuminated the place where time itself stood still, where silence became a scream of nothingness that echoed and chipped away at the vulnerable veneer of my sanity. The white porcelain floor molded effortlessly into the few pieces of furniture in the room: a combo toilet and sink and a plain cot, with soft white sheets as smooth as silk. Even the door to the room, made of heavy, solid steel, was painted white and concealed, flush against the wall.

Was it day? Was it night? Who could ever tell?

On my back on the bed, I stared aimlessly at the ceiling as I petted the sheets underneath me—my only source of sensory stimulation. The mattress was level and flush with the bedframe, which had seemed strange to me, but I understood now: it was designed to disappear into the blankness of the room. Even the smooth sheets were there to minimize the difference in texture between the fabric and the porcelain frame. They represented the same thing everything else in this yawning void of white did: deprivation.