She had always been warned that trying to alter fate would have dire consequences.
Was this all her fault—because she hadn’t yet finished her task? Because Luc, a human, had been traveling the Crossroad with her?
Her tongue felt thick, and it took enormous effort to swallow. Miranda. She had to get back to the rotunda—she had to find Miranda.
She looked around to try to orient herself. The dust, the howling of the sirens, the smoke—it made everything look foreign. Most of the familiar landmarks were gone—destroyed, buried under rubble. She limped to the next intersection.
Divisadero and Pine: the same place where she had directed the principal to her death. The pharmacy on the corner was missing its sign; half a wall had caved in.
It seemed so long ago that she had performed that task. Now she was back and she felt a spasm of pain, of doubt. Had she done the right thing that day? Had she ever done the right thing?
Who decided?
Corinthe forced the thoughts out of her mind. It was too late to change the past. She could only think of the future now.
She started moving again. She noticed a man advancing toward her. Every few feet, he stopped strangers in the street, gesturing frantically, eyes wild. At first, Corinthe thought he must be asking for money. But as he got closer, she saw that he was holding up a picture. She began to make out what he was saying.
“Please. I’m looking for my children. Have you seen them?”
“Please. Help me find my children.”
When he reached Corinthe, he turned to her with the same imploring eyes. “I’m looking for my children. Have you seen them?”
There was a fine line of blood trickling from his forehead, and he was covered in a white dust. Corinthe almost pushed past him, but the panic in his voice made her hesitate and flick her eyes to the small picture: a dark-haired girl and a smiling boy.
“I—I’m sorry,” she stuttered.
The man grabbed her arm. “Please. Help me.”
Her mouth tasted like metal. My fault.
“You’re hurt.” Her voice cracked. “You’re in shock. You need to be treated.”
She took his arm and guided him forward; he followed her mutely. A fire truck and two ambulances blocked off the street to her left, and Corinthe led the man toward one of the EMTs, a middle-aged woman with gray hair. The woman was examining a body.
“He’s bleeding,” Corinthe told her, and the woman looked up. Corinthe felt another squeeze of pain. For a second, she had mistaken the woman for Sylvia, the dead principal.
The principal Corinthe had killed. My fault, my fault.
“Thank you,” the woman said briskly. “We’ll take it from here.”
Corinthe nodded. There was nothing else she could do but keep moving.
The route to the rotunda should have only taken a few minutes, but she was hurt, and at the intersection of Richardson and Chestnut the street had collapsed, leaving a gaping hole and a broken gas line, which the police were trying to cordon off. She backtracked to Lombard and cut across to Lyon. She passed beautiful town houses that had been reduced to splinters of wood and concrete, cars crushed under the weight of trees and lampposts.
Was this the end of Humana?
When she crossed over Bay Street, she had to stop and climb carefully over a toppled tree that lay across the road. The Palace of Fine Arts was barely recognizable. The columns that had once majestically lined the walkway had collapsed and lay in piles across the lawns, one of them half immersed in the lagoon. The roof of the rotunda still perched precariously on broken supports.
Corinthe fought back the surge of terror and broke into a run.
Halfway across the rotunda, the earth trembled and bits of stucco rained down on her head. The supports shifted and the roof sank a few inches closer to her head. A chunk of concrete had smashed into the column with the concealed panel that revealed the secret tunnel. The doorway was standing open, half blocked by fallen rubble; Corinthe could barely squeeze through it.
Miraculously, the power had not gone out yet, and the dim bulbs over her head allowed her to make her way down the narrow staircase. Bricks had fallen loose from the walls, but the steps were intact.
The rooms had not fared so well.
The kitchen was in shambles. Broken dishes littered the ground, and the table lay on its side. Water overflowed the tub and gushed onto the floor. Steam filled the air and made it thick and hazy.
Corinthe sloshed her way through the debris to her room. It didn’t even look the same. The trunk that held her clothes was smashed open, and bits of colorful cloth—her clothes, all her belongings—were visible. The entire wall on the far side had collapsed. The mural she had worked on for weeks was ruined; it lay in tatters on the floor. Corinthe felt a sense of loss so strong it almost carried her off her feet.
Then she heard a low moan from the corner.
“Miranda!” she cried.
Miranda lay pinned under a slab of concrete, her midsection crushed. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. Her breathing was labored and short.
Corinthe attempted to heave the rock, but it wouldn’t move. Miranda’s eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes. Her lips turned up into a smile.
“You came. I knew you’d find me.” She coughed. Air wheezed from between her lips, and a speck of blood dotted her chin.
Corinthe was filled with fear unlike anything she had ever known. It was as though a Crossroad had opened inside of her, filling her with whipping panic. Corinthe reached out and gently wiped Miranda’s blood away with her sleeve. “What happened?”
“I came because I couldn’t find you. I was worried. I knew your last task was still incomplete. Then the wall—” Miranda coughed again. A spasm of pain passed across her face. “The wall …”
“Shhh. Don’t try to speak.” Another low tremor reverberated through the ground. “I have to get you out of here.” Again, she strained to lift the rock, pulled until her lungs felt like they’d burst in her chest. But it was too heavy, and she was far too weak.
Miranda closed her eyes and opened them again. Her breathing was growing fainter.
“It’s too late for me, Corinthe,” she said.
“Don’t say that.” Corinthe felt a pressure in her throat. Her fault, all her fault.
Miranda lifted her hand and laid it on top of Corinthe’s. It was cold. Miranda had stayed with her in Humana all these years to guide and protect her, to make sure she never stopped believing she’d one day go home again, only to die here, in this splintered, terrible world.
“Have you completed your task yet? Is the boy dead?”
“I’m sorry.” Corinthe could barely speak past the knot in her throat. This was what it was to feel, and to lose, too: for a moment, she was gripped by a sense of remorse for all the lives she had taken, all the pain she had helped bring to the world.
“There is still time, Corinthe. You can still fulfill the fate and go home.” Miranda squeezed Corinthe’s hand and a smile played across her lips. Corinthe thought Miranda had never looked more beautiful.
“I don’t know how to find him,” Corinthe choked out. “It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late. This is your fate, too. Remember that.” Miranda coughed and blood specked her lips. Her grip tightened painfully around Corinthe’s fingers. Miranda cried out, her body jerking as though an electric current had run through her.
Then her fingers relaxed.
“Miranda,” Corinthe said. Miranda didn’t respond. Corinthe felt the pressure in her throat building to a scream. “Miranda!”