I pray you’ve stayed far away,
hiked to the highest reaches of what passes for heaven these days,
because although unimaginable evil has arrived here
on a mission from hell,
your absence, the thought that all of you are isolated and safe,
has kept me going (for as long as I could go)
in the middle of this purgatory —
that and a failing heart that still beats with everlasting love for you.
— NOTE FOUND IN THE BOTTOM OF A ONE-OARED ROWBOAT BEACHED
NEAR KINGSTON, ON WASHINGTON’S OLYMPIC PENINSULA, ALONG
WITH THE BODY OF JOSHUA WINTERS,
AUGUST 14, 2067
A cough startled me awake.
Not mine. Not Tia’s.
Somewhere off in the cold dark woods.
Which direction? I sat up. I waited.
More coughing. Then a rapid-fire series of rough, wracking, chest-deep eruptions. And this time there was no doubt about who was responsible.
Gunny.
Tia stirred. She got up on an elbow. “What?”
“Coughing. Gunny.”
“No.”
Off in the trees, a lantern came on. I finger-nudged Tia’s chin in that direction — Gunny’s direction.
More coughing. Not mine, but I felt it deep in my chest.
“Gunny!” Dad was awake, too.
No answer.
The lantern moved up, then side to side, as if it was waving.
Then in one more or less steady direction.
It disappeared, appeared again, disappeared, as Gunny walked among the trees.
Gradually, the intermittent lantern glow faded, the coughing quieted. Gradually, I realized what he was doing. He was leaving. Going off to die, like a wounded animal.
The lantern light disappeared. Minutes passed. I felt empty. First Sunday, then Dr. Nuyen. Now Gunny. Tia wept. She should have been out of tears by now. I put my arm around her and looked up into the blackness of the moonless night.
Ursa Major, the Great Bear, looked down on us. The sky was so clear that I felt myself staring past that constellation to other stars, wondering if this nightmare would be as endless as the universe.
“Kellen?” Dad called.
“We’re here,” I said. “We’re okay.”
“Say a prayer,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”