If Conin can come back to me.
I need . . .
I need . . .
I need to getaway.
My feet carry me far, far away from there. I sprint and break into a full-on run. Atlas cries for me, but his voice diminishes as I vanish into the night, to the inner depths of Proctus. I run and run and run.
And I don’t look back.
Chapter 58
Atlas
Panic courses through me. My feet are glued to the floor like quicksand sucking me in the longer I remain dormant. When I blink, Ambrosia zooms into focus at the end of the hall where Ezra left her, staring intensely at the floor, as if the ground leads to all life’s answers. Our shared immobility prompts me to wake the hell up and get moving before Ezra does something rash.
“Bring him back to us!” I yell.
She blinks, looking up in confusion. But one glance at me and Iknowshe understands.
“Find Ezra,” she replies, nodding.
My feet carry me out of the infirmary and into the night. Proctus isalivewith people going about their business, socializing, meeting for a drink, or mingling among the cluster of canopies at the Shop. I dart my gaze around Sacremento Avenue, my eyes stumbling upon the first group of Angelicsnear me. Sprinting their direction, a few are startled out of their animated conversation.
“Atlas?” says one of them.
A distant lamp illuminates the speaker—it takes me a bit to realize who it is in the granularity of the dark. It’s Percy—Ezra and I work with him in the fields.
“Are you . . . okay?” he asks.
“Have you seen Ezra? He darted out of the infirmary only minutes ago,” I say, but the panic makes the question incomprehensible.
“Yeah,” Percy mumbles, “we saw him run up that way.”
He indicates the road that leads to Main Street. I think I know where Ezra’s headed. I frantically nod, rushing a “thank you” before teleporting to the top. There’s no trace of him at the three-way intersection, so I vanish again and rematerialize in the living room of their apartment. At first glance, Ezra isn’t here, but the door to their bedroom has been left ajar. I amble carefully in that direction, hoping he’ll be behind those walls. My fist wraps firmly around the handle. The door creaks open. He sits on the bed, elbows on his knees, chin carried by the palms of his hands.
“Ezra?” I whisper.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at me, stays suspended where he sits, completely oblivious to the world around him.
“Ezra,” I repeat. “Sweetheart?”
Ezra gradually lifts his head. His hair is frantic and unkempt, bangs spilling over his eyes, so I can’t see his reaction, or what lies underneath.
“Are you okay?” Stupid question. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters hoarsely.
He sounds far from fine . . .
“Ezra—”
“I’m going to sleep,” he says and falls underneath the sheets, burying himself deep inside.
I watch warily from my post near the door. My gait is gentle and quiet over to the opposite side of the bed. For a second, maybe two, I withdraw and step back before hopping in with him. Would Ezra want me here when he’s grieving and torturing himself over Conin? What would Conin think if he knew?
Ezra needs me. If he tries anything, I must be there to stop it. My heart beats frantically, but my body decides for me, turning to face him. A subtle rise and fall of his chest are a telltale sign he’s alive, so I match my breaths with him and keep pace. We fall in a shared, eurythmic cadence as the night wears on.
