Cars honk.
Tires squeal.
“Meri! What the hell?” I reach the other side and ignore the blinking Don’t Walk sign as I race across the next intersection. I’m not sure if I will be fast enough to find the girl, but I’m determined to try.
I dart around a couple stopping to admire something in a window display and stumble as Atlas appears, breathing hard beside me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he pants. “Are you trying to get caught?”
“No,” I yell, jogging around a man shoving his chair back from an outdoor café table. “I’m trying to stop anyone else from feeling like we do.”
“What are you going to do if you catch up to them? Ask the guy to dance? If you interfere with whatever it is he’s doing, he’s going to see you as a threat.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I have to find the girl first.
I keep my eyes forward and just keep jogging.
“Great,” Atlas snaps. “But if you really mean to do this we’re going to have to go a hell of a lot faster.”
When Atlas says faster, he means faster.
A guy walking a German shepherd shoots us dirty looks as Atlas streaks by the dog and down the concrete sidewalk, past the boutiques and ice-cream shop and the weekend window-shoppers. He rounds the corner, and it’s all I can do to keep up with his long strides as he cruises down the mostly residential block.
“I don’t see them,” I shout, squinting into the distance. “Do you?”
“Our scary friend just turned north at the far end of this block.” He darts to the other side of the street and I jump off the curb and follow. “We’ll take the alley and do our best to catch up. Let’s just hope she’s quicker than you.”
Okay, the insult did the trick.
I ignore the fire building in my chest, dodge a skateboarding kid, and keep pace right behind Atlas. If Atlas is right about the Marshal and the girl, what we do next could save someone like me from losing a person they love.
Our footsteps slap against pavement.
Atlas shifts the bag on his shoulder before it can slide off and somehow manages to not slow down.
My chest is about to burst. My legs burn.
Atlas glances back, his forehead glazed with sweat, and gives me an approving half grin for mostly keeping up. That smile fuels me to keep going until the alley dumps us out onto the next sidewalk.
“At the end of the block.” Atlas points. “See her?”
She’s easy to spot because other than Atlas and me, there’s no one on this street filled with three-story town houses or apartment buildings.
A dog barks somewhere nearby. The girl glances at us, then heads in the opposite direction from where we stand. Her back is to us, so there is no chance to signal to her that something is wrong.
“Where’s the guy?” I say between pants, but see the answer to my own question come into view at the corner about twenty steps behind the girl. The guy with the sunglasses pauses and looks down at the phone in his hand.
“They’ll make their move soon.”
“They?”
Atlas nods. “This block is quiet. Almost no one’s around. Perfect time for a grab. If we’re going to stop them, it has to be now. You ready?”
No. But I started this. So I guess I have to be.
Atlas pulls his backpack off his shoulder, lofts it in the air, and yells, “Well, if you want this bag back, you’re going to have to catch me.”
And off he goes. He barrels down the sidewalk while letting out another shout. I urge my legs to get moving again as sunglasses guy turns to look in our direction. He steps to the side to let Atlas pass. When he does, I glance down at the Marshal’s shoes. They are black—not boots, but not quite high-tops, with thick soles and buckled straps. A cross between a running shoe and something worn in military movies.
“Come on,” Atlas shouts as he increases the distance between himself and the man. “You can do better than that!”
I’m trying, but I’m not sure I can. Every part of my body is quivering with fatigue. But this isn’t the time to give up. I pump my arms and legs and am just closing in on the Marshal when a sedan zooms around the corner behind me and zips down the street. The man in front of me starts to run as the shiny black-and-silver car screeches to a halt just in front of where the girl in the blue hat is walking. The back passenger door of the car swings open and the girl spins.
Even from a distance I can see the fear on her face as a big man in a gray suit jumps out of the car and starts toward her. The Marshal in sunglasses is closing in as Atlas reaches into his bag, pulls out a handful of papers, and sends them flying in the man’s face.
Sunglasses Marshal grabs at the papers, as if trying to pluck as many of them out of the air as he can. The gray-suit dude turns to reach for one of the pages sailing past his face and never sees Atlas spin and kick the man square in the chest.
The man in gray flies back into the open car door. He hits metal and crashes to the ground. Papers flutter in the air around him. The gray-suited Marshal grabs one that floats against his face, crumples it, and immediately climbs to his feet—feet encased in the exact same military-style running boots as the man who had been following the girl.
Sunglasses Guy slows and reaches behind him, under his shirt. When he pulls his hand back out, I see the sunlight glinting off the dark metal of what can only be a gun.
“Watch out!” The warning I choke out is barely more than a gasp of air.
A third man jumps out of the driver’s side of the car and races toward the blue-baseball-cap girl, who is running toward the end of the street. Atlas kicks and blocks as he fights with the man in the suit. He ducks under a fist and isn’t paying attention to the Marshal with the sunglasses. But I am, and that one is lifting the gun and taking aim.
I push myself to run faster, even though I know I will never reach the man in time. I’m still half a block away.
Too far back.
Too slow.
I yell out another warning, still not strong, but loud enough for the Marshal with the gun to hear and glance in my direction for just a fraction of a second. Thankfully, that’s all Atlas needs. Atlas grabs the guy in the suit, locks his arm tight around the suit man’s neck, and spins so that he is now standing behind the Marshal in the suit when the shot cracks across the air.
The world stops.
No one moves.
I can’t breathe.
Then it feels as if everything speeds up. Atlas lets go of the Marshal in the suit. The man takes two staggering steps forward. His eyes go wide. The gray suit jacket flaps open. Blood blooms bright like a rose against the white of the shirt beneath and grows larger with every beat of my heart, and suddenly all of this is far too real.
The words.
The Stewards.
The Marshals.
The world hidden in plain view that I have known nothing about but which has surrounded me all along.
In my head I knew my mother had been killed, but I didn’t really understand.
I knew running after the girl could be dangerous, but the reality of the danger was just verified by that single shot.
The injured Marshal falls to his knees, then slowly pitches face-first onto the pavement. The man in sunglasses glances down at the one he shot, then points the weapon at Atlas, who no longer has a living shield. The Marshal smirks. His arm straightens as I cross the last of the distance between us and half leap, half stumble into the man’s side, sending him pitching over with me right on top of him.
“Get off!” The Marshal pushes up from the ground, and I am sent rolling to the side. My knee cracks against concrete. My elbow skids over the hard, rough ground. Pain sings down my leg and up my arm and I grit my teeth and ignore it all as I shove myself to my feet.
Something cracks and snaps beneath my shoe—the man’s sunglasses are toast.
“Watch out!”
I turn to see the Marshal I just tackled now on his knees, pointing the gun directly at me.
A scream builds in my throat as Atlas’s foot connects with the man’s hand. I flinch when the gunshot cracks like thunder and the weapon goes flying.
I could have died.
Atlas saved me.
Our eyes meet for a split second.
Then the girl screams. The sound of her voice scraping the air acts like a sharp slap of a hand against my face—snapping me out of the shock and back into the moment. The girl bucks against the driver. He has her gripped tight in his arms as he drags her toward the open back-seat door of the car.
“Here!” Atlas tosses me a thick black book. I fumble but catch it, then dart forward. I skid on the loose pages scattered over the pavement and kick the large man as hard as I can in the shin. It’s not the balanced, powerful kick Atlas used to save me, but it distracts him long enough for me to swing the book and crack it against the side of the man’s face. The Marshal yelps, and his grip loosens enough for the girl to wriggle free. She stumbles forward, and I grab her arms to help her keep her balance. Someone from above yells, “What the hell is going on down there? I’ve called the cops.”
Any cops that show up would be on the Marshals’ side.
“Both of you, get out of here!” Atlas shouts. He ducks, throws his backpack into the face of the man with the gun. The Marshal stumbles. Atlas spins and rams his foot into the man’s gut, sending him flying backward into the street as another black-and-silver car comes roaring toward us.
The Marshal who held the girl lunges toward me. I swing with the book again and connect with his shoulder as the girl lands a kick to his pelvis.
“Go! Now!” Atlas yells.
The new car screeches to a stop behind the first.
“I’m right behind you.” He kicks the Marshal staggering to regain his footing and sends him back against the rear tire of the first car. Atlas then ducks under the fist of the Marshal I kicked, who has started to shout for someone to call for more assistance. “Go!”
The doors of the second car fly open and four new men in suits climb out. I don’t want to leave Atlas. I got him into this, but there is very little I can do to help. I don’t know how to fight—not against men who have guns and are willing to kill. And there’s the girl to think about. She’s the reason I insisted we come here. Now I have to get her to safety. If Atlas says he is going to follow, I have to believe he will.
I grab the girl’s hand and pull her along with me as I run. Her footsteps echo in unison with mine. She asks me where we’re going, but I don’t answer. I just keep moving.
Fear propels me. Fear for the girl. Fear of the Marshals and what they might be doing to Atlas. We round the corner of the sidewalk and race down the block, the book I used to defend myself heavy in my hand. Shouted voices call for someone to follow and the sound of footfalls behind me urge my feet to move faster.
“Cross here!” Atlas barks from somewhere behind me and the girl, and my legs almost buckle with relief. But I keep moving, not looking back, and follow his orders.
The girl changes course with me. We bolt across the residential street and down the sidewalk past a father helping his son navigate their front walk on his training-wheeled red bike. Then by a woman with two fluffy black-and-white dogs and the people standing on their front porches watching us with curious eyes. At least some of them must have heard the shots and the squealing tires. If the Marshals ask, these people will certainly tell them which direction we ran in. They wouldn’t have any reason to keep that information to themselves. After all, we’re the ones causing a disturbance. As far as they can tell, we’re the bad guys.
“One of them is coming,” Atlas yells. He’s closer now. I can hear him panting. His footsteps keep time on the cement sidewalk with ours. “Cut across the yard. Go around the next corner and head to the end of the block.”
My sides ache. Sweat drips down my nose and my back. I grip the book harder as the girl and I cut across the last lawn and head for the next sidewalk. Atlas’s footsteps crunch the grass behind me. Then suddenly the sound is gone. Fear spikes. I glance over my shoulder and spot Atlas with his back against the white three-story building we just ran past. I start to slow, then let out a yelp when a blond-haired Marshal rounds the corner. He smiles when he spots me. The smile is predatory as he reaches into his pocket. I hold the book up like a shield and that’s when Atlas leaps forward. His hand knifes into the Marshal’s throat. It is followed by his foot sweeping the Marshal’s legs out from under him. Atlas waves for me to keep going as the Marshal hits the ground with a thud. I turn as Atlas’s foot connects with the Marshal again.
“Where are we going?” the girl pants next to me as we dodge a group of boys on scooters. “Do you know?”
No, and I’m not going to be able to run like this much longer. So I give the only answer I can. “We’re going wherever they aren’t.”
“Sounds right to me,” the girl answers. I can tell by the way she is breathing that she’s struggling, too. We have to hide. But there are too many people who have seen us—all will tell the Marshals what direction we went.
“Toss me the book!” Atlas’s voice calls over my shoulder.
I slow a step as I turn and pitch it to him. My throw sucks, but Atlas manages to grab it without losing speed. “Turn right down the next street. Go through the third door on that side,” he calls, reaching for his bag. “Red sign. Yellow flower. A Conductor owns the store. We have to move fast before the rest of them turn up. They can’t be that far back.”
The idea that we have somewhere safe to hide pushes me to keep moving. We round the corner and this time emerge on a street filled with coffee shops and boutiques and other businesses. The sidewalks are filled with people looking to enjoy the warm weekend evening, and I understand why Atlas told me to pass him the book. I’d stand out like a neon sign carrying it around. I skirt by couples and kids, counting the doors I pass. Finally, I get to door number three and spot the rust-colored sign for a place called Sunny Side Up. It has a large sunflower painted on the wall next to the entrance.
The door dings as I yank it open. Arctic air blasts toward me as I step into a colorful boutique filled with a half dozen or so people admiring hand-painted bags, scarves, funky T-shirts and hats. Atlas and the girl slip in behind me, making the bell ding several times more before the door closes. Two women admiring purses glance over, and I realize what we must look like. Sweaty and nervous and in my case covered in scrapes and bruises. I glance back at the door, waiting for the Marshals to burst through, while Atlas makes a beeline for the counter.
“Sorry I’m late.” He rolls up one sleeve and shifts so that the severe, black-haired woman managing the cash register can see his tattoo.
Her eyes dart to the door and she gives an almost imperceptible nod before she curls her lips into a frown. “Boxes are in the back. The three of you had better work fast or I’ll dock your pay.”
Atlas jerks his head toward the other end of the store. The girl with the hat and I follow him around several display tables filled with a treasure trove of brightly colored materials and shining jewelry to the back, where he pulls open a narrow door marked “Employees Only.” The three of us duck through, and when the door clicks behind us, I feel a small kernel of relief.
“Now what? Do we wait here for the Marshals to give up?”
“No,” Atlas says, crossing to the back of the room. “After what just happened, I doubt the Marshals will leave the area anytime soon. The best option is for us to get out of this neighborhood.”
I look around the cramped storage area, then back at him. “And I guess you know a way we can do that?”
He gives me the cocky grin I’ve come to count on. “Of course I do.” He points to a black, circular staircase that spirals up through the floor above and says, “It’s time to climb.”
My legs are like rubber. Each footstep on the iron stairs rings loud no matter how hard I try to stay quiet. I make my way up to the next story—into a small living room filled with comfortably worn furniture and a vase of flowers that look so perfect in color and bloom I’m guessing they aren’t real. The girl with the hat appears on the steps behind me and leans on the back of a deep green armchair, looking as if she is about to collapse.
But Atlas isn’t going to let that happen yet. He makes a beeline for the window, throws it open, climbs out, and after several long seconds pops his head back in. “Let’s go. Keep low when you reach the roof. Move.”
I crawl through the window into the warmth of the early-summer air and keep moving upward. There’s no way I’m letting the Marshals win today. They aren’t getting anyone else. Not if I can help it.
There are a bunch of chairs and empty bottles on the roof, which tells me we aren’t the only ones who have come up here. But we’re the only ones who have been up here recently because ours are the only footprints I can see.
“Stay down and go over the rooftops to the one on the end. Most of them you can step between. For the last one we’ll have to jump.”
Jump?
I trip more than once as we move from rooftop to rooftop, most separated by only a foot or two. The last is several feet lower and four or so feet away from the building we are standing on now.
I glance over the edge and my stomach tilts.
The sound of sirens floats on the breeze and is getting closer.
“You can do this,” Atlas says with conviction.
Not long ago he was telling me to stay in my house and not to go anywhere. Now he believes I can leap tall buildings with a single bound.
“I know,” I tell him as I move several steps back and take a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
Before doubt can take hold, I start to run. Atlas matches my steps on one side. The girl with the blue hat is a step behind on the other. Two steps from the edge of the building, I launch myself into the air. My heart stops. Inside my head, I am screaming at the nothingness of several stories beneath me. Then my feet hit the next roof with room to spare. The other two land right beside me.
I did it.
The Marshals were chasing us. I saw someone die. We could still be found, but that doesn’t stop the pride I feel at getting this far.
“You’re going to take that fire escape to the alley,” Atlas says, leading us to the back corner of the structure we’re standing on. “There’s a dumpster you can hide behind until I get there.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I’m going to erase any sign that we’ve been here.”
“Do all Stewards know about that place? The one with the sunflower?” I ask as the girl in the blue hat starts down the iron fire escape steps. “Did my mom?”
“Each member is given information on the escape routes closest to their area of operation. We call them switching stations,” he answers. “They were created for just this reason, and people with my job—we’re drilled until we know them all. We have to move.” He turns, and I head down the steps.
When I reach the landing next to the girl, I release the ladder and cringe as it whines and scrapes before it comes to a stop. Hand over hand, foot over foot, I climb down the ladder and drop the last few feet to the pavement behind a dumpster, that by the smell of rotting food, needs to be emptied. I crouch down and wait for the blue hat girl to join me. My knee throbs and my elbow . . . I gingerly touch the scrape and wince.
“I guess I should say thanks,” the girl whispers, coming to kneel on the concrete next to me. She removes her hat, shakes out her long hair, then swipes at a line of blood at the corner of her mouth with a frown. “I’m not sure what all that was about or what those men want, but it can’t be good.”
“You don’t have any idea why you were being followed or why the Marshals were after you?” I ask, willing Atlas to get down here so we can clear out.
The girl shoves her dark hair back under the hat, then shakes her head and peers around the dumpster. “Those guys must have thought I was someone else. Just a case of mistaken identity.”
The girl is probably only a year or two older than me, with wide-set eyes; sharp, tanned cheekbones; and golden highlights streaking through her brown hair. Add to that the fact she is almost six feet tall and the idea that she could be mistaken for someone else is laughable.
Except nothing about this is funny.
I listen for the sound of footsteps in the alley or from the rooftops above. When I don’t hear any, I say, “At first we thought the Marshal with the gun and the sunglasses was coming after us, but he was following you. And I’m pretty sure you must know that or you would’ve asked who or what the Marshals are.”
She slowly turns her darkly lined brown eyes toward me. “And who are you? How do you know who the Marshals are? Why did you think one might have been after you and your friend?”
“I’m no one,” I say, stretching my legs as much as I can so I’m ready to run when Atlas gets down here.
“That’s not true.” She cocks her head to the side. “You guys are Stewards? Right?”
I go still. According to Atlas, the Stewards are a secret from everyone except the Marshals and the government officials who directed their forces to track them down. And yet this girl knows their name.
“The tattoo,” she explains, snapping the stretch of silence. “The flame. The book. The guy you’re with showed the tattoo to the woman behind the counter in the store. That’s why she helped us, which means she’s a Steward, too. My friends and I have heard rumors for years. We even tried to get word to them to see if they would want to join forces, but it was like trying to find a ghost. We finally gave up because there didn’t seem to be a point. The Stewards have only been interested in standing on the sidelines instead of doing anything to help change things. I’m surprised the two of you aren’t ducking and covering.”
“I never said we were Stewards. . . .”
“No, you didn’t. But we both know you are and that I’m not on my way to one of their holding pens because of you.” She shifts her position behind the dumpster and says, “I owe you. The friends I work with owe you, too.”
Metal rattles overhead. I look up as Atlas hops from the escape ladder to the ground. He shoves the ladder upward, and I flinch as it shrieks back into place. We stay silent for several long seconds as we listen to the sounds of the city around us. A car honks. Somewhere there is laughter.
Finally, Atlas says, “The Marshals seem to be focusing their search on the shops of the street where we disappeared. But that won’t last much longer. I’m going to check the alley and then we’ll move out.”
Before either of us can ask any questions, Atlas squeezes around the dumpster and heads into the alley.
“Here.” The girl takes off her hat and holds it out to me. When I hesitate she shoves it into my hands and lets out a frustrated huff. “Take it.”
Since I’m not sure how to reject the gift, I close my fingers around the brim. “Thanks?”
She lets out a sharp laugh, touches the side of her mouth where blood is starting to bloom again, and grimaces. “If you ever need help, or want to do more than just hang around on the sidelines, look in the lining of the hat. Tell whoever you reach that Stef gave it to you. They’ll understand. There aren’t many of us left anymore, but we’re doing what we can.”
“We’re good,” Atlas whispers from the other side of the dumpster.
I slide between the dumpster and the brick wall. Stef follows.
“They’re looking for three of us,” Stef says matter-of-factly. “It’ll be better if I go on my own from here.” She turns back to me. “I hope we meet again sometime.” And with that she starts running. In a second, Stef is gone from view.
I jam the hat on my head and start jogging on tired legs with Atlas to the edge of the alley, then walk to the park across the street and out of the neighborhood. We don’t say anything when we get on the bus and head in the direction of my house. My right knee is stiff. My feet ache, and my heart is pounding like I’m still running for my life. Did my mother ever feel like this? If so, how could I have not seen?
I glance at Atlas several times, trying to figure out what he’s thinking as we ride. He’s answering messages on his phone, but I’m not at a good angle to see what they are about. From his expression, I’d guess they aren’t anything good.
When the bus reaches our stop and we climb off and onto the curb, I finally say the words I’ve been thinking since we reached the back room of that store with the sunflower sign. “Thank you.”
Atlas gives me a long stare and says nothing. He’s not going to make it easy, so I try to say the rest as fast as I can. “I should have listened to you. I didn’t know what I was getting us into by trying to help that girl. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t understand. Not until I faced it myself.”
I turn and look toward the Loop—at the buildings shining silver and rose and gold against the dimming sky. “I’ve always trusted that everything the government did was to make us happy and safe. When you showed me the truth, I didn’t want it to be real. But it is. I know it is. And knowing what I know, I couldn’t just stand by and let someone else get hurt. I’m glad Stef is safe, but I shouldn’t have forced you into putting yourself in danger to help her.” The crack of the Marshal’s gun echoes in my mind and I shiver. “That wasn’t my choice to make.”
Atlas sighs. “You didn’t force me into anything.”
“You don’t have to try and make me feel better. You said—”
“I know what I said.” He shifts his backpack on his shoulder and starts walking. I fall in step next to him. “And I meant it. I would have walked away from her and the Marshal had you not insisted on going off on your crusade. But I’m glad we did it.”
“Why?”
“Because now I don’t have to wonder whether that girl is dead and whether I could have saved her.”
Shades of regret and smudges of frustration shadow Atlas’s face. It makes me wonder how many others Atlas has watched walk away oblivious to the Marshals he knew were on their heels.
“You could have been killed.” My heart goes still at the thought. “They had guns.”
“Did you think they’d be carrying knitting needles?”
“No. I’ve just never seen one, except in movies.” No one I know of has, either.
There used to be a time when gun deaths in the country totaled in the tens of thousands every year. People didn’t know how to make it stop. After years of debate, Congress changed the laws that governed firearm ammunition. Every bullet from a manufacturer had to be stamped with a unique identification number and registered each time it changed hands. Bullets used in a crime could then be tracked back to the person who last registered them and that person charged as an accessory.
After a few years of arrests, most people were no longer interested in the risks associated with owning a gun. And those who kept their firearms took more care with how they used their guns and stored their ammunition. Between the Ammunition Registration Act and the City Pride Program, crime plummeted in Chicago. Now the city was one of the least likely places to hear a gunshot. Any gun-related death was a huge story.
At least, that’s what I’d been told to believe. Now I have to wonder if that is true or if there is another explanation for why Marshals and police officers have guns and few others do.
As we walk down the block, Atlas explains, “The Marshals can get away with firing their weapons as long as they do it in places where few people see. It’s why the Stewards try to stick to busy streets and methods of transportation where we’re rarely alone. The more witnesses, the less chance the Marshals or the government has of covering up a shooting. Panic is something they want to avoid.”
I picture the Marshal swinging the gun toward Atlas and the way Atlas fought him. He moved so fast. “How did you learn to fight like that? I thought the Stewards were all about books.”
“Just because people like to read doesn’t mean we can’t fight. All Stewards who spend time on the street are trained to handle themselves,” Atlas explains. “More than a few of us are hoping someday our training will be good for more than running from the Marshals. I can teach you what I know after the lockdown. The way you clocked that Marshal tells me you’ll be . . . What’s wrong?” he asks as he realizes I have stopped walking.
“What?” he repeats as I stare at him.
“What do you mean, ‘after the lockdown’?”
“Well, I can’t teach you while I’m in the Lyceum and you’re up here.”
“You’re going to go through with the lockdown after everything we learned about the Unity Centers? What about your dad?”
“My dad would want me to do what’s necessary for the Stewards—”
“Your dad would want you to do what you think is right.”
“And you think you know what that is?” Atlas shakes his head and turns into the alley that leads to my house. I have to race to keep up with his long strides. “You’ve been a part of this world for a handful of days. I’ve been living it my entire life. The Stewards have lasted longer than anyone else who knows the truth. There’s a reason for that. If you bothered to read the section on World War Two you’d know that.”
“I did read it,” I shoot back. “I know all the groups that tried to get people out of Germany or were actively pushing back against the government were hunted down.”
“I rest my case,” Atlas says as we reach the gate that leads to my backyard. “Look, I appreciate everything you did today. For me and for my dad.” He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off my face. “You’re not what I thought you were going to be when I sent you your ticket.”
“What did you think I was going to be?”
“Uncomplicated.” He looks down at me with an expression that is impossible to read.
“I’ll take that as a compliment?” My throat is dry, so the words sound low and uncertain.
“I meant it as one. You’re unexpected, Meri.” Atlas gives me a smile that spreads slowly from his lips up to his eyes, and my stomach flips.
Rose’s ringtone sings in the air, killing the moment.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket. “I have to answer this.” If I don’t, Rose will just keep calling until I do.
Giving Atlas an apologetic smile, I put the phone to my ear and barely have the chance to say hello before I hear Rose say, “Meri! It’s Isaac. He’s gone.”