But the lantern stays unlit. John stays outside. Mom isn’t home.

I lean my arms heavily against the table and press my palms to my eyes. “Help me,” I whisper desperately to the empty room. “I can’t do this.” I want to, I love her, but I can’t bear it. It’s been almost a year. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just move on?

My throat chokes up. The tears come in a rush. I don’t bother to stop them, because I know it’s impossible. I sob uncontrollably—I can’t stop, I can’t catch my breath, I can’t see. I can’t see my family because they’re not here. Without them, all this furniture is nothing, the sea daisies lying on the table are meaningless, the lantern is just an old, blackened piece of junk. The images from my nightmare linger, haunting me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t push them away.

Time heals all wounds. But not this one. Not yet.

I DON’T STIR, BUT THROUGH MY HALF-LIDDED, SLEEPY eyes, I see Day sit up in bed beside me and bury his face in his arms. He’s breathing heavily. Seven minutes later he gets up quietly, casts one last glance in my direction, and disappears out the balcony doors. He’s as silent as ever, and if him waking up from his nightmare hadn’t roused me, he would easily have left my room without my ever knowing.

But I do know, and this time I rise right after he leaves. I throw on some clothes, pull on my boots, and head out after him. The cool air washes over my face, and moonlight drenches the whole night in dark silver.

Even in his deteriorating condition, he’s still fast when he wants to be. By the time I catch up with him at Union Station and follow him through the streets of downtown, my heart is pounding steadily in the way it does after a thorough workout. By now, I already know where he’s going. He’s returning to his family’s old home. I look on as he finally reaches the intersection of Watson and Figueroa, turns the corner, and heads inside a tiny, boarded-up house with a faded X still painted on its door.

Just being back here makes me dizzy with the memory. I can’t imagine how much worse it must be for Day. Gingerly I make my way over to the boarded windows, then listen intently for him. He goes in through the back door—I hear him shuffling around inside, his footsteps subdued and muffled, and then stop in the living room. I go from window to window until I finally find one that still has a crack between two of its wooden planks. At first I can’t see him. But eventually I do.

Day is sitting at the living room table with his head in his hands. Even though it’s too dark inside for me to make out his features, I can hear him crying. His silhouette trembles with grief, and his anguish is etched into every single crumpled, devastated muscle of his body. The sound is so foreign that it tears at my heart; I’ve seen Day cry, but I’m not used to it. I don’t know whether I ever will be. When I reach up to my face, I realize that tears are running down my cheeks too.

I did this to him . . . and because he loves me, he can never really escape it. He’ll remember the fate of his family every time he sees me, even if he loves me, especially if he loves me.

I FINALLY RETURN, BLEARY-EYED AND EXHAUSTED, TO JUNE’S bedroom just before dawn. She’s still there, apparently undisturbed. I don’t try to crawl back into bed beside her; instead, I collapse onto her couch and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until the light strengthens outside.

June’s the one who shakes me awake. “Hey,” she whispers. To my surprise, she doesn’t comment on how red or puffy my eyes must look. She doesn’t even seem shocked to wake up and find me lounging on her couch instead of in her bed. Her own eyes look heavy. “I’ve . . . informed Anden about what you decided. He says a lab team will be ready to pick you and Eden up in two hours, at your apartment.” She sounds grateful, weary, and hesitant.

“I’ll be there,” I mutter. I can’t help staring vacantly off into space for a few seconds—nothing seems real right now, and I feel like I’m swimming in a sea of fog where emotions and images and thoughts are all out of focus. I force myself off the couch and into the bathroom. There, I unbutton my shirt and splash water on my face and chest and arms. I’m afraid to look in the mirror this time. I don’t want to see John staring back at me, with my own blindfold tight around his eyes. My hands are shaking so badly; the gash on my left palm is open again and bleeding, probably from the fact that I keep clenching that hand instinctively. Had June seen me leave? I shudder as I relive the memory of her standing there outside my mother’s home, waiting at the head of a squadron of soldiers. Then I revisit the Chancellor’s words to me, the precarious situation that June is in . . . that Tess is in, that Eden is in—that we’re all in.

I splash water repeatedly on my face, and when that doesn’t help, I jump in the shower and drown myself with scalding hot water. But it doesn’t numb the images.

By the time I finally emerge from the bathroom, my hair still wet and my shirt half buttoned, I’m sickly pale and trembling. June watches me quietly as she sits on the edge of her bed, sipping a pale purple tea. Even though I know it’s pointless to try hiding anything from her, I still give it a shot. “I’m ready,” I say with as genuine of a smile as I can muster. She doesn’t deserve to see this sort of pain on my face, and I don’t want her to think that she’s the one causing it. She’s not the one causing it, I angrily remind myself.

But June doesn’t comment on it. She studies me with those deep dark eyes. “I just got a call from Anden,” she says, running a hand uncomfortably through her hair. “They have some new evidence that Commander Jameson’s the one responsible for passing along some military secrets to the Colonies. It sounds like she’s working for them now.”

Underneath my tidal wave of emotions, a deep hatred wells up. If it weren’t for Commander Jameson, maybe everything would have been better between June and me—and maybe our families would still be alive. I don’t know. We’ll never know. And now she’s working for the enemy when she’s supposed to be dead. I mutter a curse under my breath. “Is there any way to know exactly where she is? Is she actually in the Republic?”

“No one knows.” June shakes her head. “Anden says they’re trying to see if anything on her can be tracked, but she must have long changed out of her prison clothing, and her boots’ tracking chips must be gone by now. She’ll have made sure of that.” When June sees the frustration on my face, she grimaces in sympathy. Both of us, broken by the same person. “I know.” She puts her tea down and squeezes my uninjured hand.

Violent flashbacks flicker through my memory at her touch—I wince before I can stop myself. She freezes. For a second, I see the deep hurt in her expression. I quickly cover up my mistake by kissing her, trying to lose myself in the gesture as I did last night.

But I’ve never been the best liar, at least not around her. She takes a step away from me. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” I say in a rush, irritated with myself at dragging our old wounds back to the surface. “It’s not—”

“Yes, it is.” June forces herself to face me. “I saw where you went last night—I saw you in there. . . .” Her voice fades away as she looks down in guilt. “I’m sorry I followed you, but I had to know. I had to see that I was the one causing all of the grief in your eyes.”

I want to reassure her that it’s not all because of her, that I love her so desperately that I’m terrified of the feeling. But I can’t. June sees the hesitation on my face and knows it’s a confirmation of her fear. She bites her lip. “It’s my fault,” she says, as if it’s just simple logic. “And I’m not sure I will ever be able to earn your forgiveness. I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know what to do.” My hands dangle at my sides, helpless. Terrible images from our past flash through my mind again—my best attempts can’t stop them. “I don’t know how to do it.”

June’s eyes are glossy with tears, but she manages to hold them in. Can one mistake really destroy a lifetime together? “I don’t think there’s a way,” she finally says.

I take a step toward her. “Hey,” I whisper in her ear. “We’ll be okay.” I’m not sure if it’s true, but it seems like the best thing to say.

June smiles, playing along, but her eyes mirror my own doubt.

* * *

The second day of the Colonies’ promised ceasefire.

The last place I want to return to is the lab floor of the Los Angeles Central Hospital. It’s hard enough being there and seeing Tess contained behind glass walls, with chemicals being injected into her bloodstream. Now I’ll be back there with Eden at my side, and I’ll have to deal with seeing the same thing happen to him. As we get ready to head down to the jeep waiting in front of our temporary apartment, I kneel in front of Eden and straighten his glasses. He stares solemnly back.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say again.

“I know,” Eden replies. He brushes my hand impatiently away when I wipe lint off his jacket’s shoulders. “I’ll be fine. They said it wouldn’t take all day, anyway.”

Anden couldn’t guarantee his safety; he could only promise that they would take every precaution. And coming from the mouth of the Republic—even a mouth that I’ve come to grudgingly trust—that little cracked bit of reassurance means almost nothing. I sigh. “If you change your mind at any point, you let me know, yeah?”

“Don’t worry, Daniel,” he says, shrugging off the whole thing. “I’ll be fine. It doesn’t seem that scary. At least you get to be there.”

“Yeah. At least I get to be there,” I echo numbly. Lucy fusses over his messy blond curls. More reminders of home, and of Mom. I shut my eyes and try to clear my thoughts. Then I reach out and tap Eden on the nose. “The sooner they start,” I say to him, “the sooner it can all be over.”

Minutes later, a military jeep picks me up while a medic truck transports Eden separately to the Los Angeles Central Hospital.

He can do this, I repeat to myself as I reach the fourth-floor laboratory. I’m escorted by technicians to a chamber with thick glass windows. And if he can, then I can live through it. But still, my hands are sweaty. I clench them again in an attempt to stop their endless trembling, and a stab of pain runs through my injured palm. Eden’s inside this glass chamber. His pale blond curls are messy and ruffled in spite of Lucy’s efforts, and he’s now wearing a thin red patient scrub. His feet are bare. A pair of lab technicians help him up onto a long, white bed, and one of them rolls up Eden’s sleeves to take his blood pressure. Eden winces when the cool rubber touches his arm.

“Relax, kid,” the lab tech says, his voice muffled by the glass. “Just take a deep breath.”

Eden murmurs a faint “okay” in response. He looks so small next to them. His feet don’t even touch the floor. They swing idly while he stares off toward the window separating us, searching for me. I clench and unclench my hands, then press them against the window.