He was supposed to be at Arches early this morning, and a thick wad of panic lodges itself in my throat.No! He can’t have been in the tower! He had to have gotten out! I have to see him, I have to be with him. I have to know if he’s okay.
Sirens wail. Red and blue lights flash.
Police. Fire truck. Or an ambulance.
“Atticus!” I break into a run toward the tower.
“What are you doing?” Aspen yells, trying to pull me back.
“My friend was in there!”
I fight my way past police cruisers and fire trucks that crowd the narrow street in front of the rubble and stone that’s all that remains of Arches.Where’s Atticus?My mind is racing.Where is my friend?Is he dead? Alive?
I see his supervisor, Professor White, stumbling through the crowd, but no Atticus.
Police push the bystanders away, telling people not to look, but it’s too late. I catch sight of it, and shock grips my insides like an icy claw.
“Is that…a hand?” Aspen asks.
It’s a human hand underneath a pile of stones.
“Is it a student?” a girl in a blue sweater asks.
Oh God, please let it be a student and not Atticus.My thoughts are a jumbled mess, a buzz of bees, growing angrier and more panicked by the second. Why don’t our stupid phones work in this place?! I can’t call Atticus. I can’t call Dorian.
“What were they doing in the tower anyway?” another person asks. I don’t know who. The voices are untethered, disembodied.
To the side, a student, one I’ve seen dozens of times at the library, is talking to the police. His face is swollen with tears as he says, “We were supposed to meet here at midnight, to do the freshman trial, but I fell asleep…” He bursts into more tears, unable to finish his sentence.
A group of students is already talking. “One of the freshmen, they’re saying.”
“The trial to join St. Ad’s? Trying to fly?”
“Yeah.”
Aspen holds me tight, but I still feel like I’m floating.
“Aspen,” I say. I’m dreaming. I have to be.
“I have to do something,” he says. “Stay here.” He lets me go as he navigates to a policeman.
I can’t think, I can’t move. I’m transfixed by the sight of the limp hand, a glimmer of something red and shining dripping from a fingertip. Police move onlookers out of the way, to clear the area for the fire trucks. People in yellow coats barrel past me, telling everyone to vacate. I don’t move. I can only watch as the firemen retrieve the body; the crowd whispers, a quiet murmur rising up, the bystanders wondering just who it could be.
One of the firemen has ahold of the body and makes his way out of the rubble.
Don’t let it be Atticus.
Don’t let it be Atticus.
It’s not.
Because Atticus is walking out of the fog and the smoke, holding a book. “Raven!” he cries, and we fall into each other’s arms. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s covered in dust from head to toe, and he looks like he just climbed out of hell, but he’s alive.
We hold on to each other as the fireman carrying the body walks closer to us. Atticus and I both turn to look and catch a glimpse of the figure’s face.
“Pippa,” I say.
Time slows down, filtered through fractured moments. Her blond hair is matted with blood. Her eyes are clouded over, sightlessly staring. Her arms hang limp in the fireman’s hold. Someone screams. No, I’m the one screaming.
