I run a hand across the ring in wonder, my heartstrings pulled taut. A dozen emotions rush through me. “I’m sorry,” I stammer out after a while, trying to put a more hopeful spin on everything. That’s all I can say, after this gift from her? “They think there’s still a chance. They’re trying out some more treatments soon.”

“You once told me why you chose ‘Day’ as your street name,” she says firmly. She moves her hand so that it’s over mine, hiding the paper clip ring from view. The warmth of her skin against mine makes my breath short. “Every morning, everything’s possible again. Right?” A river of tingles runs up my spine. I want to take her face in my hands again, kiss her cheeks and study her dark, sad eyes, and tell her I’ll be okay. But that would just be another lie. Half of my heart is breaking at the pain on her face; the other half, I realize guiltily, is swelling with happiness to know that she still cares. There’s love in her tragic words, in the folds of that thin metal ring. Isn’t there?

Finally, I take a deep breath. “Sometimes, the sun sets earlier. Days don’t last forever, you know. But I’ll fight as hard as I can. I can promise you that.”

June’s eyes soften. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“Why should you have to bear it?” I mutter back. “I just . . . thought it would be easier this way.”

“Easier for whom?” June snaps. “You, me, the public? You would rather just pass away silently one day, without ever breathing another word to me?”

“Yes, I would,” I find myself snapping back. “If I’d told you that night, would you have agreed to become a Princeps-Elect?”

Whatever words sat on the tip of June’s tongue go unspoken. She pauses at that, then swallows. “No,” she admits. “I wouldn’t have had the heart to do it. I would’ve waited.”

“Exactly.” I take a deep breath. “You think I wanted to whine to you about my health in that moment? To stand in the way of you and the position of a lifetime?”

“That was my choice to make,” June says through clenched teeth.

“And I wanted you to make it without me in the way.”

June shakes her head, and her shoulders slightly droop. “You really think I care so little about you?”

Our food arrives then—steaming bowls of soup, plates of dinner rolls, and a neatly wrapped package of food for Eden—and I lapse gratefully into silence. It would’ve been easier for me, I add to myself. I’d rather step away than be reminded every day that I only have a few months left to be with you. I’m ashamed to say this out loud, though. When June looks expectantly at me for an answer, I just shake my head and shrug.

And that’s when we hear it. An alarm wails out across the city.

It’s deafening. We both freeze, then look up at the speakers lining all the street’s buildings. I’ve never heard a siren like this in my entire life—an endless and earsplitting scream that drenches the air, drowning out anything in its path. The JumboTrons have gone dark. I shoot June a bewildered look. What the hell is that?

But June’s no longer looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on the speakers blaring out the alarm across the entire street, and her expression is stricken with horror. Together, we watch as the JumboTrons flare back to life—this time each screen is bloodred, and each has two gold words etched in bold across its display:

SEEK COVER

“What does it mean?” I shout.

June grabs my hand and starts to run. “It means that an air strike’s coming. The Armor is under attack.”

       “EDEN.”

It’s the first word out of Day’s mouth. The JumboTrons continue broadcasting their ominous scarlet notice as the alarm echoes across the city, deafening me with its rhythmic roar and blotting out all other sounds in the city. Along the street, others are peeking out of windows and pouring out from building entrances, as bewildered as we are over the unusual alarm. Soldiers are flooding into formation on the street, shouting into their earpieces as they see the approaching enemy. I run right beside him, thoughts and numbers racing through my mind as we go. (Four seconds. Twelve seconds. Fifteen seconds a block, which means seventy-five seconds until we reach Day’s apartment if we keep up our pace. Is there a faster route? And Ollie. I need to get him out of my apartment and to my side.) A strange focus grips me, just like it had the moment I first freed Day from Batalla Hall all those months ago, like the moment Day climbed the Capitol Tower to address the people and I led soldiers off his trail. I may turn into a silent, uncomfortable observer in the Senate chamber, but out here on the streets, in the midst of chaos, I can think. I can act.

I remember reading about and rehearsing for this particular alarm back in high school, although Los Angeles is so far away from the Colonies that even those practice drills were rare. The alarm was to be used only if enemy forces attacked our city, if they were right at the city’s borders and barging their way in. I don’t know what the process is like in Denver, but I imagine it can’t be that different—we are to evacuate immediately, then seek out the closest assigned underground bunker and board subways that will shuttle us to a safer city. After I entered college and officially became a soldier, the drill changed for me: Soldiers are to report immediately to a location their commanding officers give them over their earpieces. We must be ready for war at a moment’s notice.

But I’ve never heard the alarm used for a real attack on a Republic city, because there hasn’t been one yet. Most attacks were thwarted before they could reach us. Until now. And as I run alongside Day, I know exactly what must be going through his mind. It triggers a familiar guilt in my stomach.

Day has never heard the alarm before, nor has he ever gone through a drill for it. This is because he’s from a poor sector. I was never sure before, and I admit that I never thought much about it, but seeing Day’s confused expression makes it all very clear. The underground bunkers are only for the upper class, the gem sectors. The poor are left to fend for themselves.

Overhead, an engine screams by. A Republic jet. Then several more. Shouts rise up and mix with the alarm—I brace myself for a call from Anden at any moment. Then, far off along the horizon, I see the first orange glows light up along the Armor. The Republic is launching a counterattack from the walls. This is really happening. But it shouldn’t be. The Colonies had given us time, however little, to hand over an antidote to them—and since that ultimatum, only four days have passed. My anger flares. Did they want to catch us off guard in such an extreme way?

I grab Day’s hand and pick up my pace. “Can you call Eden?” I shout.

“Yeah,” Day gasps out. Immediately I can tell that he doesn’t have the stamina he used to have—his breathing is slightly labored, his steps slightly slower. A lump lodges in my throat. Somehow, this is the first evidence of his fading health that hits home, and my heart clenches. Behind us, another explosion reverberates across the night air. I tighten my hold on his hand.

“Tell Eden to be ready at your complex’s entrance,” I shout. “I know where we can go.”

An urgent voice comes over my earpiece. It’s Anden. “Where are you?” he says. I shiver as I detect a faint hint of fear in his words—another thing I rarely hear. “I’m at the Capitol Tower. I’ll send a jeep to pick you up.”

“Send a jeep to Day’s apartment. I’ll be there in a minute. And Ollie—my dog—”

“I’ll have him sent to the bunkers immediately,” Anden says. “Be careful.” Then a click sounds out, and I hear static for a second before my earpiece goes dark. Beside me, Day repeats my instructions for Eden over his own mike.

By the time we reach the apartment complex, Republic jets are screaming by every other second, painting dozens of trails into the evening sky. Crowds of people have already started gathering outside the complex and are being guided in various directions by city patrols. A jolt of fear seizes me when I realize that some of the jets on the horizon are not Republic jets at all—but unfamiliar enemy ones. If they’re this close, then they must’ve gotten past our longer range missiles. Two larger black dots hover at the end of the sky. Colonies airships.

Day sees Eden before I do. He’s a small, golden-haired figure clutching the railings by the apartment complex’s entrance door, squinting in vain at the sea of people around him. Their caretaker stands behind him with both of her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Eden!” Day calls out. The boy jerks his head in our direction. Day hops up the steps and scoops him into his arms, then turns back to me. “Where do we go?” he shouts.

“The Elector’s sending a jeep for us,” I reply in his ear, so that the others don’t hear. Already a few people are casting us glances of recognition even as they stream past us in a haze of panic. I pull my coat collars as high up as they can go, then bow my head. Come on, I mutter to myself.

“June,” Day says. I meet his eyes. “What’s gonna happen to the other sectors?”

There’s the question I’ve been dreading. What will happen to the poor sectors? I hesitate, and in that brief moment of silence, Day realizes the answer. His lips tighten into a thin line. A deep rage rises in his eyes.

The jeep’s arrival saves me from answering right away. It screeches to a stop several feet from where the others have crowded around, and inside I see Anden wave once at me from the passenger’s side. “Let’s go,” I urge Day. We make our way down the steps as a soldier opens the door for us. Day helps Eden and their caretaker inside first, and when they’re both buckled up, we climb in. The jeep takes off at breakneck pace as more Republic jets fly by overhead. Off in the distance, another bright orange cloud mushrooms up from the Armor. Is it me, or did that seem like a closer hit than before? (Perhaps closer by a good hundred feet, given the size of the explosion.)

“Glad to see you all safe,” Anden says without turning around. He utters a quick greeting at each of us, then mumbles a command to the driver, who makes a sharp turn around the next block. Eden lets out a startled yelp. The caretaker squeezes his shoulders and tries to soothe him.

“Why take the slower route?” Anden says as we veer down a narrow street. The ground shakes from another far-off impact.

“Apologies, Elector,” the driver calls back. “Word’s that several explosions have gone off inside the Armor—our fastest route’s not safe. They bombed a few jeeps on the other side of Denver.”

“Any injuries?”

“Not too many, luckily. Couple jeeps overturned—several prisoners escaped, and one soldier’s dead.”

“Which prisoners?”

“We’re still confirming.”

A nasty premonition hits me. When I’d gone to see Thomas, there had been a rotation of guards standing in front of Commander Jameson’s cell. When I left, the guards were different.