Ezra weighs nothing in my arms. His eyes flutter—his agape mouth struggles to siphon air from the suit’s ventilation system. If he perishes because of smoke inhalation, I’ll never forgive myself. I could’ve run faster, held him back, kept him close before he dove into the battlements of a blazing building. That was preventable. Now, I’ll have to live with the repercussions of Ezra’s fate.
The healer ushers us into an Angelic vehicle as Leeanne shouts commands to her crew. I hear the Angelic say something about doing what she can to help, but every word uttered afterwards flies over my head into oblivion. Atlas perches beside me as we lower Ezra onto a cot. The healer presses down on his suit’s emblem. When the entirety of the armor vanishes, I watch Ezra’s face, painted with ash and soot, grapple with the fight for air. Several more Angelics file in, Mafu, Ofa, and Gavin recognizableamongst them. They take the empty seats on each side of the van, watching Ezra’s deep struggle in the center with ashen expressions.
“Will he be okay?” Mafu asks, thinking about what must be on everyone’s mind—what’s plaguing me and Atlas to our very cores.
“I’m not sure yet,” the healer says.
Her hands emit a golden light. It radiates a pleasant warmth that overtakes the vehicle. I try not to let hope overcome me, but I cling on to it with the last dregs of my strength, and watch the bitter rise and fall of Ezra’s chest. Atlas grips my hand and doesn’t let go. His glasses are shattered, and coagulated blood smears his upper lip, but he’s alive and he’s here. I squeeze to remind him that I’m alive too, and that I’m not going anywhere.
My fears claw their way up. They scream and slash, cut and try to outlast my waning strength, but I won’t let them. If the past year has taught me anything, it’s the undeniable knowledge that I can’t control everything—I simply can’t, no matter how hard I wish that not to be the unequivocal truth. I was always so afraid of what I didn’t know, of what the future held, of it spiraling from my grasp into a path I couldn’t move away from. If there’s one thing I know for sure, one fragment of consolation I can hold on to, it’s that regardless of the outcome, the goal is worth fighting for.
Ezra is worth fighting for. He was worth leaving my life behind and entering into one shrouded with uncertainty. He gave me his truth and I discovered mine. We met Atlas and lived an amazing nine months together. The more I reflect, the more I know that I need him alive. I need a future with him, whatever future we can dig out of the rubble, with Atlas by our side.
The van roars to life. It powers ahead, through the remnants of a forgotten land, and leaves behind a haven once teeming with life—a life survivors created to endure. Where we’ll go now, I’mafraid none of us know. I suppose, the more I think about it, the more I realize we’ll be alright. The Angelics have each other. Together, we’ll tackle the world—face whatever obstacles come our way.
An image of Mom takes precedence for a moment. I wonder if I’ll be able to return home one day, if I’ll ever be able to see her again. That fear of what I don’t know resurfaces, but I fight back, and I hold it at bay. What I can control is promising myself that I’ll do whatever it takes to make our reunion a possibility. The idea of Atlas meeting her excites me and I cling to that feeling. I also cling to the idea that Ezra will see her again, too.
Atlas and I hold hands for an eternity. We watch Ezra, the healer’s hands traveling up and down the length of his body. His breaths are labored, though he still breathes, and together Atlas and I hope.
I guess when it really boils down to it, hope is all we have.
Epilogue
Ezra
The sun is low as it sets over the Californian mountains. I hear an eagle cry—its call echoes, reaching us in this tiny park. The air is warm. Light filters through the foliage of the towering evergreen trees, drifting between the exposed gaps of the gazebo. Atlas kicks his feet back and forth as he lies on his stomach. He simultaneously reads while grading his students’ math work. Conin jots ideas down in a notebook—his college essay, which I have high hopes he’ll ace.
I’ve stopped playing the strings of my violin. Instead, I lie on my back and gaze at the ceiling. I raise my hand, catching the light, feeling its warmth, watching dust motes dance. They look like ash—their taste sooty on my tongue. I wish that every day could be like this one. What we have now is good, so good.
A grape hits my cheek and bounces away. I squint, rub the skin, and turn to see Atlas giggling without remorse. Conin chuckles but notes several more ideas on the lined paper. I grabthe grape and chuck it at him. Atlas curls into a ball of laughter. I smile because I simply cannot help it.
“Hey! I wasn’t the instigator!” Conin protests.
“Yes, but you aren’t supposed to take his side!”
He grins and shakes it off. I groan and roll to Atlas. He strokes my hair with careful fingers. We lie here a long time in comfortable solitude, the sounds of Conin’s pen and the flipping of paper carrying to us. I don’t care. All I care about is that I’m here with them.
“What are you thinking about?” Atlas asks, quietly.
Conin has a subtle smile on his face as he flips another page. He’ll get those scholarships, I know it. He’ll be the best goddamn quarterback any university has ever seen.
“Just . . . how grateful I am.”
Hues of yellow and orange stretch above, and the sun leaves and dives below the mountains. Conin’s glued to my hip, our worries fading in the dark. Atlas’s head rests on my shoulder, a silent thrum escaping his mouth.
Conin’s eyes find me. An understanding passes between us. I don’t need to say anything more. He nods because he knows, too. He knows what I’m thinking. And frankly, he always has. He always will.
I’m grateful he brought us here. I’m grateful he ushered me out that door. He came along with me, and he didn’t look back, not after losing the life he made for himself, not after missing his mom, not after all the danger he and I went through together. Before, I would have given up. He didn’t. Not once. Atlas is in our lives because of his bravery. We have a life worth living.
And even though it’s our inseparable trio now, at one point, it was just Conin and me. I wouldn’t trade our relationship with Atlas for anything, but I also cannot deny the history I have with Conin.
There was a time during my and Conin’s middle school years when Lukeman Gray abused me for the first time over some petty argument. Thax had learned new tricks with his freshly serrated blade—cruel strokes to the arms. His relationship with Lukeman was as unhealthy as mine, and he always took his spite out on his younger brother. In my loneliness and hurt, I sought the refuge of Conin, who was unfamiliar with the troubles happening at home. But . . . I had no home with the people who claimed to be my parents. Home was where Conin was. And to Conin, I went.
“Ezra, dear. What’s wrong?” his mom had answered. The door parted and there he was. He lies on the couch and looks at me. Tears are falling before I can do anything to suppress them.
“Oh, dear. Come in, love,” she says.
Conin takes my hand and leads the way to his room. He shuts the door, joining me on the bed. Without hesitation, he tells me to lie beside him. Reluctant, I do. He wraps a tentative arm around my shoulders and pulls me in tight. We’ve never done this before, but it feels nice. There’s an awkward tension at first, though even that disappears.
