9.

It is not a perfect legacy, but it’s one to be proud of, they agree, listening over to the recording of Jim’s final sermon. The worst parts, Mona ensured to stop the recorder for. Everything else, well … it’s understandable that they should grieve a little at the end of the world.

‘What a beautiful little family,’ Jim says, peering over the top of the bunk at Jin-sun and Carrie’s tadpoled bodies, their swaddled baby like a shared heart between them. He looks at Evelyn. ‘Have you taken care of Soul?’

‘Not yet.’

Sally-Ann, Frida, and Mona avert their faces as Jim follows Evelyn into the next room. Dr. Katz hovers on the threshold, preparing a syringe.

Evelyn lifts the covers.

‘Beautiful baby,’ Jim says ceremoniously. ‘Beautiful Soul.’

Evelyn knows from his tone that he hasn’t changed his mind.

Yet there’s always a chance he will. Always a chance. Just let her keep him like this; never to wake, never grow, just breathing; the shine of his hair, the pink of his cheeks.

‘Ready.’ Katz hands her the syringe. ‘Ready when you are.’

Evelyn sits cross-legged on the bed, adorns Soul’s sleepy head with a garland of feverish kisses. Inhales his powdery little boy scent. She lifts the pudge of his forearm. No.

‘Little Mother,’ Jim prompts. ‘Be objective.’

Objective. Only a push of her finger. Only a prick. Only a fine layer of skin. Only a deeper kind of sleep. Only a birdlike peep, escaping his lips.

After all, he’s had a good life … a life of mostly play, puppy dogs, people giving him rides on their shoulders.

She holds the rage tight in her chest. Holds Soul tight as the sweating starts, the rash-like red, the choking, spasms. Stillness.

‘Brave mother. Brave soldier.’ Jim puts an arm around her, grazes the gloss of her temple. They sit like that for a time, smelling the bitterness, dead flames. Then Jim picks up her right hand. ‘It’s time, darlin’ … There’s nothing left.’

Mechanically, Evelyn tucks Soul in again. Follows Jim.

Follows him into the next room. The glow of his red shirt in the cabin’s dim; yesterday’s shirt, she chose it. He pulls the pistol from his pocket, beckons her with it.

Evelyn stops. ‘No,’ she says.

Katz looks up from the punch he’s pouring. The girls, from whatever they’re doing: scrawling notes, tearing up sketches, putting on jewelry.

‘C’mon, now,’ Jim says. ‘A promise is a promise.’

‘No,’ Evelyn repeats. ‘I don’t want to.’

Jim mugs at her, expression thick, skin gray. That’s how I want it. My right-hand. Sally-Ann catches Evelyn’s eye; jumps to her feet in a sudden bolt of understanding.

‘Father,’ she says. ‘It’s better if a nurse does it, don’t you think? Someone with medical experience?’

‘Yeah, Father,’ Frida agrees. ‘It’ll be quicker and cleaner if Sally-Ann does it.’

‘We don’t want you suffering, Father,’ Mona chimes in.

Jim stares at Evelyn a moment longer, her blank white face, crossed arms.

‘Alright, Sally-Ann,’ he murmurs, holding out the pistol. ‘Th’nk you, darlin’.’

Sally-Ann takes the pistol, takes Jim’s arm and helps him out the door, giving Evelyn a last bright look over her shoulder.

Evelyn smiles wanly, dashes a tear. Too little, too late, like everything.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, reaching past Katz to take a cup.

There are things she would’ve liked to live for, of course. Nothing revolutionary, just things. Spend more time with Soul. See her parents. Vicky and Richard the Second in Manhattan. Visit France again. Work in France. Perhaps work for the UN. Perhaps … a haircut.

New earrings? She is missing an earring.

She is missing an earring. Rose earrings given to her by Lenny Lynden, who was her husband in another life, her beautiful blue-eyed boy-husband with the smile that made her wince, but not this life. This life is stepping over. This life is a shimmering blood-sunrise over jungle so beautiful, like a fairytale, MomandDad, I must finish this letter soon, the boat is going out. This life is the new life. This life is the dawn of revolution and she is ready to meet it in a necklace of thorns, sprouting black feathers, adorned with the reddest roses.