By the time I reach him, a crowd has formed. I can hear one of them shouting, “Move it! Get back, give us some room! Tell them to hurry up!” A lump in my throat chokes me, leaving me short of breath. My boots pound against the ground, keeping rhythm with my heart. I shove people aside and drop to my knees at Day’s side. The person shouting was Pascao. He gives me a frantic look.

“Stay with him,” he tells me. “I’m going for the medics.” I nod once, and he dashes off.

I barely notice all the people crowded around us in a ring. All I can do is look down at Day. He’s trembling from head to toe, his eyes wide open in shock, his hair clinging to his face. When I look closer at his body, I notice two wounds spilling dark blood across his shirt, one wound in his chest and the other near his hip. A strangled cry comes from someone. Maybe it’s from me. As if in a dream, I bend over him and touch his face.

“Day, it’s me. It’s June. I’m right here.”

He looks at me. “June?” he manages to gasp out. He tries to lift a hand to my face, but he’s shaking so hard that he can’t. I reach out and cradle his face with both of my hands. His eyes are full of tears. “I—I think—I’ve been shot—” Two people from the crowd place their hands over his wounds, pressing down hard enough to force a painful sob from his mouth. He tries to look down at them, but has no strength to lift his head.

“Medics are on their way,” I tell him firmly, leaning close enough to press my lips against his cheek. “Hang on. Okay? Stay with me. Keep looking at me. You’ll be okay.”

“I don’t—think so,” Day stammers. He blinks rapidly, spilling tears down the sides of his face. They wet the tips of my fingers. “Eden—is he safe—?”

“He’s safe,” I whisper. “Your brother is safe and sound and you’ll get to see him very soon.”

Day starts to reply, but can’t. His skin looks so ashen. Please, no. I refuse to let myself think the worst, but it hangs over us like a black shadow. I feel the heaviness of death looming over my shoulder, his sightless eyes staring down into Day’s soul, waiting patiently to overwhelm his light.

“I don’t want—to go—” Day finally manages to say. “I don’t want—to leave you—Eden—”

I shush him by touching my lips to his trembling ones. “Nothing bad will ever happen to Eden,” I reply gently, desperate to keep him with me. “Stay focused, Day. You’re going to the hospital. They’re coming back for you; it won’t be long now.”

It won’t be long now.

Day just smiles at me, an expression so sad that it breaks through my numbness, and I begin to cry. Those bright blue eyes. Before me is the boy who has bandaged my wounds on the streets of Lake, who has guarded his family with every bone in his body, who has stayed by my side in spite of everything, the boy of light and laughter and life, of grief and fury and passion, the boy whose fate is intertwined with mine, forever and always.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Can you stay awhile?” He says something else, but his voice trails off so quietly that I can’t make out what it is. No. No. You can’t. His breathing grows shallower. I can tell that he is fighting to stay conscious, that with every passing second, his eyes have more and more trouble focusing on me. For a moment, Day tries to look at something behind me, but when I glance over my shoulder, there’s nothing there but open sky. I kiss him again and then lean my head against his.

“I love you,” I whisper over and over again. “Don’t go.” I close my eyes. My tears fall on his cheeks.

As I crouch there against him, feeling his life slowly ebb away, I’m consumed with grief and rage. I have never been a religious person. But right now, as I see medics in the distance hurrying toward us, I send a desperate prayer to some higher power. To what, I don’t know. But I hope that Someone, Anyone, hears me. That It’ll lift us both into Its arms and take pity on us. I throw this prayer into the sky with every shred of strength I have left.

Let him live.

Please don’t take him away from this world. Please don’t let him die here in my arms, not after everything we’ve been through together, not after You’ve taken so many others. Please, I beg You, let him live. I am willing to sacrifice anything to make this happen—I’m willing to do anything You ask. Maybe You’ll laugh at me for such a naïve promise, but I mean it in earnest, and I don’t care if it makes no sense or seems impossible. Let him live. Please. I can’t bear this a second time.

I look desperately around us, my vision blurred with tears, and everything is a smear of blood and smoke, light and ash, and all I can hear is screaming and gunfire and hatred, and I am so tired of the fighting, so frustrated, angry, helpless.

Tell me there is still good in the world. Tell me there is still hope for all of us.

Through an underwater veil, I feel hands on my arms pull me away from Day. I struggle stubbornly against them. Pain lances up my injured shoulder. Medics bend down over his body. His eyes are closed now, and I can’t see him breathing. Images of Metias’s body flash back to me. When the medics try again to pull me from Day, I shove them roughly away and scream. I scream for everything that has gone wrong. I scream for everything broken in our lives.

I THINK JUNE IS LEANING OVER ME, BUT I HAVE TROUBLE making out the details of her face. When I try too hard, the edges of my vision filter out into blinding white. The pain, at first excruciating, is nothing now. Memories fade in and out—memories of my first days frightened and alone on the streets, with my bleeding knee and hollow stomach; of young Tess, and then of John when he first learned that I was still alive; of my mother’s home, my father’s smile, of Eden as a baby. I remember the first time I met June on the streets. Her defiant stance, her fierce eyes. Then, gradually, I have trouble remembering anything.

I always knew, on some level, that I wouldn’t live long. It’s simply not written in my stars.

Something bright hovering behind June’s shoulder catches my attention. I turn my head as much as I can to see it. At first it looks like some glowing orb of light. As I keep staring, though, I realize that it’s my mother.

Mom, I whisper. I stand and take a step toward her. My feet feel so light.

My mother smiles at me. She looks young and healthy and whole, her hands no longer wrapped in bandages, her hair the color of wheat and snow. When I reach her, she gently cups my face between her smooth, uninjured palms. My heart stops beating; it fills with warmth and light and I want to stay here forever, locked in this moment. I falter in my steps. Mom catches me before I can fall, and we kneel there, together again. “My little lost boy,” she murmurs.

My voice comes out as a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, my baby.” I bow my head as she kneels over me. She kisses my forehead, and I am a child again, helpless and hopeful, bursting with love. Past the blurry, golden line of her arm, I can look down at my pale, broken body lying on the ground. There’s a girl crouched over me, her hands on my face, her long dark hair draped over her shoulder. She’s crying.

“Are John and Dad . . . ?” I begin to say.

Mom just smiles. Her eyes are so incredibly blue, like I can see the entire world inside them—the sky and the clouds and everything beyond.

“Don’t worry,” she replies. “They are well, and they love you very much.”

I feel an overwhelming need to follow my mother wherever she’s going, wherever that might take us. “I miss you guys,” I finally say to her. “It hurts every day, the absence of someone who was once there.”

Mom combs a gentle hand through my hair, the way she used to when I was little. “My darling, there’s no need to miss us. We never left.” She lifts her head and nods at the street, past the crowds of people who have gathered around my body. Now a team of medics is lifting me onto a stretcher. “Go back to Eden. He’s waiting for you.”

“I know,” I whisper. I crane my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse of my brother in the crowds, but I don’t see him there.

Mom rises; her hands leave my face, and I find myself struggling to breathe. No. Please don’t leave me. I reach out a hand to her, but some invisible barrier stops it. The light grows brighter. “Where are you going? Can I come with you?”

Mom smiles, but shakes her head. “You still belong on the other side of the looking glass. Someday, when you’re ready to take the step over to our side, I’ll come see you again. Live well, Daniel. Make that final step count.”

FOR THE FIRST THREE WEEKS THAT DAY IS IN THE HOSPITAL, I never leave. The same people come and go—Tess, of course, who’s in the waiting room as much as I am, waiting for Day to come out of his coma; Eden, who stays as long as Lucy allows him to; the other remaining Patriots, especially Pascao; an endless assortment of doctors and medics who I begin to recognize and know by name after the first week; and Anden, who has returned from the warfront with his own scars. Hordes of people continue to stay camped out around the hospital, but Anden doesn’t have the heart to tell them to disperse, even when they continue to stake out the grounds for weeks and then months. Many of them have the familiar scarlet streaks painted into their hair. For the most part, they stay silent. Sometimes they chant. I’ve grown used to their presence now, to the point where it’s comforting. They remind me that Day is still alive. Still fighting.

The war between the Republic and the Colonies, at least for now, is over. The Antarcticans finally came to our rescue, bringing with them their fearsome technology and weapons that intimidated Africa and the Colonies into returning to our ceasefire agreement, bringing both Anden and the Chancellor before the international court, imposing the proper sanctions against us and them and finally, finally beginning the process for a permanent peace treaty. The ashes of our battlegrounds are still here, though, along with a lingering hostility. I know it will take time to close the wounds. I have no idea how long this ceasefire will last, or when the Republic and the Colonies will find true peace. Maybe we never will. But for now, this is good enough.

One of the first things the doctors had to do for Day, after stitching up the horrific bullet wounds, was to operate on his brain. The trauma he’d suffered meant he couldn’t receive the full course of medications needed to properly prep him for the surgery . . . but they went ahead with it. Whether or not he was ready was irrelevant at that point; if they didn’t, he would’ve died anyway. Yet, still. This keeps me awake nights. No one really knows whether he’ll wake up at all, or whether he’ll be an altogether different person if he does.

Two months pass, and then three.

Gradually, we all start to do our waiting at home. The hospital’s crowds finally begin to thin.

Five months. Winter passes.

At 0728 hours on an early spring Thursday in March, I arrive at the hospital’s waiting room for my usual check-in. As expected at this hour, I’m the only one here. Eden’s at home with Lucy, getting some needed sleep. He continues to grow, and if Day were awake to see him now, I know he’d comment on how his brother is starting to lean out, losing the baby fat on his face and taking the early steps into adulthood.