“He’s my friend. He doesn’t deserve this. I brought him here. Don’t you understand? I brought him here! It’s my fault. It’s my fault.” Unsure of what to do next, Lucy fell to the floor in the hallway, her back against the wall, her legs splayed out in front of her. After a moment, she tipped herself over and let her body shake against the ground. Then she felt hands lift her up and hold her. As if she weighed nothing at all, her father picked her up off the ground and cradled her in his arms.
“No Lucy,” her father said. “It’s my fault. Don’t waste time blaming yourself. Blame me. Blame me, child.”
Tears stained her father’s shirt and Lucy couldn’t stop them from flowing. She cried for her lost friend, her confusion, and her shift in expectations. Lucy wanted to tell him this; wanted to say something, anything, but she found herself mute. Slobbering and hiccupping into her father’s chest.
He shifted and turned past Maxine, hushing her impending storm with a single look. Then walking right past the twins and Galen, huddled and whispering where Lucy had left them, he took Lucy into a bedroom and shut the door with his foot, the slam echoing behind him. There he set Lucy down on a bed. It was fully made—its comforter smooth, and there were three floral accent pillows. He deposited her down and Lucy curled herself into a ball.
“You left me,” she said.
It was the first thing that came to mind to say.
Her father buried his head in his hands for just a second. “Lucy…” he paused and then stopped. He tried to rub her back, but she pulled away.
“I don’t want to leave my friend. We were a good team. We fought hard to be here. Can’t you see that?”
“Okay,” Scott replied. “But—”
He sighed. Rubbed his temples. And then he simply said, “Okay.”
“Who are these people? They tried to kill me, Dad. Don’t you see? They tried to kill me and they are going to kill Grant. You have to stop them, please? I’m begging you. Stop them.”
His face went ashen and he looked to the floor.
Then Scott stood up. “You’ve had a shock,” he said weighing his words. “It’s reasonable to be upset and confused.” He walked to the bedroom door and put his hand on the knob. “But let’s get something clear here, Lucy. When I heard that you had missed the flight. When I heard that you and Ethan weren’t at home…when I begged them to wait, to stop, to go get you from the school…and they didn’t? Then my worst fears were realized. That I sacrificed everything to save you and it wouldn’t matter.”
“You did this to us,” Lucy mumbled without accusation. She shook, like she was freezing, her limbs quivered against the bedspread and she was unable to stop them.
“I did this for you.”
She didn’t turn to look at him; instead she kept her eyes fixated on a framed picture of a tree—a towering oak in the center of a huge field, a piece of nature that didn’t exist down here in this place. Its image was unsettling; like a piece of hotel art, trying to trick you into believing you were somewhere, anywhere, other than where you actually were.
“Then it is true. You helped unleash this virus. That killed our friends. Family. Everyone. You did this.” Even Lucy was scared at how she let the indictment fall so matter-of-factly. She closed her eyes for one brief moment and the image appeared of Salem’s body in the ground, heaped on Leland Pine’s wife: One direct and one indirect victim of her father. She couldn’t look at him without seeing what he had done. Her dead classmates. Him. The bloated bodies they encountered in Portland and beyond. Him. Salem. Him.
“What you said is not untrue,” Scott answered her. His voice felt far away. “But it’s not the truth. Do you understand?”
Lucy didn’t answer. Instead, she closed her eyes and wished for the shaking to stop.
There was a knock on the bedroom door and her father opened it a crack and peered out at the disruption.
“They brought a note for you,” Maxine said tersely. “They’re calling you in.”
“In a minute,” Scott answered.
“Send a note to Huck that you are going to spend time with your daughter. Work can wait.”
Scott didn’t answer her. He waited a beat and shut the door. Lucy pictured her mother on the other side of the wooden barrier seething and waiting. The blankets felt nice against her skin and Lucy had no desire to move from this spot.
“I want you to listen, Lucy. I want you to listen to me,” he said. He stepped away from the door and back toward her body, still curled into a fetal position. “I raised you to be a good scientist. A good researcher. Ask questions, understand the world around you, don’t take anyone’s answer at face-value. Right? Haven’t I? Isn’t that what I’ve always said?”
Lucy nodded weakly.
“This is no exception, then.” Scott sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned on his knees. While he was bending over, Lucy stole a glance. He too had planned for the joyous welcome—he had hoped to find his little girl, still turning to him for all the answers, intact and willing to carry on like before the Release. “That’s all I can give you now. Just…don’t jump to conclusions. And whatever you do,” he lifted his head and Lucy didn’t have time to look away; her eyes locked with this. “Whatever you do,” he repeated, “don’t punish your mother for this.” His tone turned steely and threatening. “You have no idea what she’s been through. She doesn’t deserve your disdain.”
And with that lecture, Scott King rose and walked to the door. Lucy still stared into the space her father had occupied only seconds earlier. “Wait,” she whispered, her throat dry. Scott paused and turned to her; he looked at his daughter with concern and compassion.
“Yes?” he asked in a quick breath, hopeful.
“Save him,” Lucy said without looking at her dad. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t say you can’t. I know you can save him. I know it’s up to you. And if you don’t,” she paused and lifted her eyes and narrowed them, “I’ll never forgive you.”
Scott King sighed and frowned. Then he turned without replying and left her alone.
“Chocolate milk and a granola bar?”
Lucy cracked open an eye and saw her thirteen year-old brother Galen standing by her bedside. He looked down at her and held up the goodies for her to see.
Her eyes were swollen from the crying. Her face felt tight with dehydration and when she smiled at her brother, her dried tears stretched along her skin. She took the milk—in a plastic cup—and sat up to take a sip. She ached and felt dizzy; Galen put a tender hand on her arm and the touch felt odd, unlike him, and out-of-place. Unsure of how to respond to his brotherly compassion, Lucy shied away from the touch and, after downing the entire drink, reached her hand out for the granola bar.
“Thanks,” she said as she bit into the chewy oats. “Did Dad leave?” she asked with her mouth full of chocolate.
“A little bit ago, yeah,” Galen said and he sat down on the bed next to Lucy. “Mom won’t tell us about Ethan.” He looked at the floor. “She said we’ll discuss it later, after we get you better.” Galen paused. “It’s been really hard.”
Lucy turned to her brother. The middle-child of their clan; capable of being simultaneously annoying and unassuming. He liked to read and help their mom bake, which Ethan never tired of mocking. Unlike the perpetually dirt-stained, snot-streaked, booger picking twins, Galen enjoyed keeping up his appearance, and in the sixth grade had taken to ironing his own shirts after Mama Maxine berated him for his unrealistic demands on her laundry schedule. He wasn’t quiet, but he was often talked over. And he’d taken to watching old Hitchcock movies instead of the dumb comedies and action films that his peers preferred.
But he was still her little brother—and Lucy had enough stories of rude comments spoken over shared toys, fights over bathroom time, and a history of Galen’s pre-pubescent contempt for family, that she hadn’t really looked at her brother as anything other than someone to share space with. Just when he’d endear himself to her, Galen would undo it all with sarcastic comment or an ill-timed prank.