Chapter 3

At the time, I was still raw in it — three betrayals at once, and alone with all of them in a place where shells went off at random and people died in the streets.

I slapped myself. I pulled my own hair. Once, badly, I went for my wrist with something I shouldn't have.

My mother had spent my whole childhood alternating between crushing me and making me feel guilty for the difficulty of her life as a single parent. Lily had clarified something that my mother had always implied: that I was someone no one would naturally choose. That Bryce leaving me was the correct outcome.

My mother's messages from that period were mostly variations on the same theme — twenty-odd years wasted, all for this. Lily's were more precise. Bryce's were three words: I'm sorry.

I had nothing to do with the remorse. All I could do was keep moving.

The only thing that worked was the fear — the specific, concrete fear of dying in a place you'd chosen — and the particular kind of empathy that displacement forces on you when you're surrounded by people who've lost everything. I used both to drown out the rest.

There were several times it nearly worked permanently.

The worst one would have, if someone hadn't used a network of contacts to get a diplomatic intervention arranged. I came back to consciousness in a transport aircraft.

On my phone, when I could finally look at it, there was a message.

Zara, the paperwork's sorted. I can have you picked up whenever you're ready. — Dad.

I sat with the word for a long time.

Three more days, I typed back.