Two days later.
A knock on the door of the small wooden house. An answer. Angela with cookies, politely declined. Angela’s bandage, healing nicely.
A seat in the middle of the sitting room, specially chosen. A conversation.
I’m sorry about your sister, Lucia said. But it was a long time ago.
I ’spect you want some type of thanks, Jessica said. Or other exchange.
Not really, Lucia said. The world doesn’t need the things it used to. Neither do we.
Too bloody right, said Angela, and both of them turned.
• • •
Up on the clifftop in one of the plastic chairs. The old orange caravan. The tower. Bright swells on the water. A long, tired sip on a flask. His head still screeched but was healing surprisingly fast. Maybe a pint and some chips down at the pub later.
Everything back to normal below. Commuter cars wending their way to the city tunnel. Strollers on the beach. Steam rising from the Doris Cafe. Feral little shits running wild in the housing development. Barbecue smells already kicking in. The knock of bat on ball at the far cricket fields. Seagulls high above, riding the current.
Except nothing’s normal, and never will be again. Not when you go through it.
Hedy was gone. To where, who knew. Maybe Antarctica. Maybe to some quiet place or a big city somewhere. He didn’t know what Lucia had shown her and wouldn’t ask.
Us, though, we’re staying. At least for a while. Survival bunkers down south can wait. There’s other work to do.
This is how we really change. By going beyond the song of our parents. The world’s going mad but that’s not the end of anything. Not really. Just a hell of a fresh start.