Sergeant Taylor leaps onto one, and his bullet goes wide. Princeton and I duck as Rodrigo darts in front of us.
The second bullet finds a home in his chest.
I scream.
I’d known it was coming, but still, I scream.
The rest of the battle fades away as I crawl to Rodrigo and take his face in my hands.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
“Rodrigo!”
His eyes fix unseeing on a point above my head.
“Wake up!” I shake his shoulder even though I know it’s pointless. He won’t wake up.
Princeton lays a hand on my back. “Sophia, he’s gone.”
I look up at him.
So are you, I want to say.You’re all gone, and you left me here.
Colors swirl, and I think I might be crying.
The dream pulled apart at the edges, though I fought to hang on to it. It wasn’t a good memory, but it was the last time we were all together. Rodrigo had been alive, and then he just…wasn’t. A moment in time. A split-second decision. His entire life, distilled to nothing.
He’d died saving my life.
When the tears came for Rodrigo, they flowed in torrents. It was like a jagged piece of glass had been inserted into my heart. It hurt to breathe, to swallow, to exist. Only now did I recognize the normalcy of that reaction. I was still whole and unbroken, a stranger to heartbreak. Rodrigo’s death was the first time I suffered even a hint of the pain I was capable of feeling.
The naivety of those who have never known grief was a beautiful thing, I thought. A little like a snowflake—unique, but fragile. Once destroyed, it could never be recreated the same way. If someone had tried to explain to my innocent self how itwould feel to lose Rodrigo so suddenly, so violently, I wouldn’t have believed them. When it happened, I thought my heart would never heal, and I had no concept that things could ever be worse.
I was so naive.
On the evening of that battle, I sat on the floor of the common room, using Mom’s legs as a backrest while she stroked her fingers through my curls. Tekqua remained a comforting presence nearby, her hand squeezing mine every so often. After a time, the dulcet tones of a guitar thrummed through the room. At first jumbled, the chords gave way to a song I recognized.
Tears in Heavensprinkled over my consciousness, and liquid filled my eyes once more. The chord progression raised goosebumps on my arms. Above me, Mom hummed the tune. I joined in the lyrics, as did many others. When I craned my neck toward the guitarist, I found Adam Ambrose’s grieving face.
Adam, who thrived on camaraderie, who fostered unconditional companionship amongst us all, did what he did best: he brought us together again. The song filled the room—his guitar and our voices. Tekqua squeezed my hand and didn’t let go. Mom laid her cheek on my crown. Dad squeezed my shoulder.
The music played on.
It had been a terrible day, and yet, I longed for it now. Cheeks wet, I turned over in bed and forced myself to go back to sleep. In my dreams, at least they were alive. My dreams, it seemed, were the only safe spaces left.
9
Good Girl
Executions shall be carried out in public within the confines of each region’s Unity Square, under the supervision of leadership from the National Stability Force.
—CAPITAL ENFORCEMENT AND EXECUTION ACT, N.A.O.C. 18 § 4709
The morning of my third meeting with Lucas Scott, trepidation returned. The whole affair was wearing on my flimsy rationality. I hated the lack of control, and in a dark, unhealthy part of my mind, I wished he was the man I’d been expecting, the one who would use and abuse me, the one who’d enjoy my pain. It would have been a relief to let pain erase the sadness for a bit, to let my hatred of him cloud all the other negative emotions.
But no.
He couldn’t even give me that.
