6

If there’s one thing humans love to do,

it’s make the same mistake twice.

When Khalani was six, she asked her father what rain was.

“Did you learn that word in school today?” he asked, turning on the lamp next to her bed.

“Mr. Sanders talked about it in farming class today. He said water used to pour from the sky so all the plants and flowers would grow. Is that true, Papa?”

“That’s right, blossom.” He smiled. “There’s a big faucet in the sky. When the flowers are sad, someone turns it on. The rain makes the flowers happy, and they can grow big and strong. Just like you.” He playfully pinched her nose.

Her forehead creased, eyes turning downcast.

“What’s wrong?” He frowned.

“I wish it rained down here.” Her bottom lip quivered. “That means the flowers aren’t happy.”

His lips curved in a soft smile as he tucked the sheets around her. “Don’t worry. You’re going to see rain tonight.”

“How?”

“In here.” He tapped her forehead. “Your mind is so creative and powerful that all you have to do is imagine anywhere in the world you want to go, and when you sleep at night, your dreams will take you there.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He kissed her forehead. “Get some rest, my little dreamer.”

As he turned to leave, she stopped him with one last question.

“Papa, will we ever go back to the surface?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his smile faltering, as if he knew the next words out of his mouth would be a lie, but he wanted to give her hope.

Hope was all that remained.

“Yes. One day.”

Khalani’s eyes fluttered open, the warmth of her father’s eyes fading as she was thrust back to the cold, abandoned building on the surface.

She rarely dreamed of her parents.

Was the memory even real?

Rubbing the corners of her crusted eyes, she sat up. Soft snores echoed from Adan, who sprawled out to her left. Everyone was still fast asleep.

She stood quietly, stretching her arms, ignoring the never-ending tension in her neck.

Every morning, her sore muscles seemed to whisper,

“Savor this moment, because it’s all downhill from here.”

She tiptoed around the sleeping bodies. The howling wind had ceased its assault against the building, and she wandered past the barricaded windows.

Streaks of sunlight filtered through the dusty space as she approached the stacked desks against the wall. Her nose wrinkled at the scent of mildewed wood and rusted metal in the air.

The wallpaper caught her eye—a faded pink, littered with strange animals. Nearby, a colorful, tattered sign was partially hung, reading “CLASS OF 2040,” and just beneath it was a dusty chalkboard displaying the alphabet.

Her eyes widened in realization.

This used to be a school from the Great Collapse.

Kneeling in front of the open cubbies built into the wall, her fingers brushed against frayed backpacks that were still packed away. She unzipped several bags, her pulse quickening as she searched for supplies. But they were all empty.

She slumped back, sighing in defeat as she picked up the final bag. But it wasn’t empty—a small, black notebook was buried inside.

Property of Ana Blackwood

Khalani frowned at the bold words on the cover. She glanced around, as if doing something she shouldn’t, but everyone was fast asleep, even Takeshi—the first time she’d seen him blessedly unconscious in a while.

Turning her back to the notebook, she opened the first page.

3/15/2040

Dear Diary,

Daddy got me a puppy! I’m calling him Clover because Mommy said he’ll bring us good luck. I hope he does. Maybe Clover can make my parents smile again. They stay glued to the TV every night, not letting me watch cartoons, always insisting I play with the dolls in my room. But they don’t know I sneak down the stairs to watch, too. The stern ugly man on TV says big words like nuclear war and underground lottery. I don’t know what that means. But as long as I have Mommy and Daddy, I’ll be okay.

5/03/2040

Dear Diary,

I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written. So much has been happening. We left our home in Las Vegas and moved a few hours southeast. Daddy says it’s just temporary until things calm down. I’m at a new school, and we have bomb drills every day. Sometimes we hide under our desks for hours. I miss my old life. I miss my friends. I just want to go home.

9/11/2040

Dear Diary,

I asked Mommy when we could go home, and she said when the war ends. I hate war. War would never happen if the people in charge had a playdate and talked about their feelings. I said that in class, and everyone laughed at me. There aren’t many kids left in class now. My best friend, Mary, told me she was going to Apollo with her mommy, daddy, and baby sister. I don’t know where that is. I asked Mommy if we could go also, and she started crying. I heard her and Daddy fight that night. Mommy screamed that they should’ve been accepted. But daddy yelled that there wasn’t enough space.

I don’t want to see them cry anymore. I have a plan. I drew them a picture today. It’s all of us together outside with Clover. I didn’t draw our old house because I want them to know that everything will be okay as long as we’re together. Better than okay. Maybe Mommy will take me back to the park! We haven’t been in a—

Khalani’s brows furrowed as she flipped through the pages hastily, but that was the last passage Ana Blackwood had written.

A crinkled paper fell out of the torn notebook. It was a crayon stick-figure drawing of three people holding hands outside a yellow house, with smiles on their faces and what appeared to be a small brown dog.

She let the notebook fall to her lap, a sudden pang fluttering in her chest. Something told her that Ana’s parents never saw the drawing.

Khalani’s fingers fluttered over the paper, tracing the little girl whose dreams splayed out before her in memory.

She tucked the drawing and diary inside her backpack for safekeeping, tapping them gently. She also grabbed the spare pencil lying on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

Khalani whipped her head around to find Brock standing next to the cubbies, gloved hands on his hips, wearing heavy combat boots and a dark brown cloak that outlined his muscular frame.

“I’m just looking around.” She flushed, zipping her bag quickly.

“Find anything interesting?”

“No,” she immediately replied, standing up, but hesitated at his deeper stare. “Well…yes. It’s just an old diary. And before you go on about conserving space, I already know. You think it’s stupid. I just don’t want to leave it here.”

Brock studied her with a blank expression for a few moments, giving away none of his thoughts. But then, he abruptly walked past her, staring through the open cracks in the barricaded windows.

“Have you gotten used to it yet?” he asked, looking outside.

“Used to what?”

“All the destruction.”

She moved beside him, peeking through the window.

The dangerous sandstorm seemed to have left without a trace. Remnants of broken-down vehicles were visible on the street, but not a soul lay in sight except for the seven of them in that dilapidated building.

She considered his question, imagining Ana Blackwood’s world before the Great Collapse. Waking up to beautiful landscapes, streets bustling with activity, and green trees lining every corner. All the young families laughing under the sun, blissfully unaware that it would soon disappear from their sight forever.

“I think you can get used to anything,” she said softly.

Brock’s watchful gaze shifted to her. “It’s sad, isn’t it? There’s no place where the world is truly good. Not underground or above.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.” A line appeared between her brows. “What we have here is good.”

“We’re just a few escaped convicts. That doesn’t mean much.”

“It means everything,” she emphatically stated, glancing at the others still sleeping.

Winnie and Serene cuddled together. Derek and Adan snored beside them. Takeshi remained in the far corner, facing everyone, watching over them, even in his sleep.

“Maybe change hasn’t happened because we’ve been waiting for ourselves.” The raw statement escaped her as a whisper, but it solidified in her mind like a promise.

Brock frowned at that, tilting his head as if he were seeing her for the first time.

“And you really believe that? You still have hope that one day this will all get better?” He gestured toward the wrecked building they were housed in incredulously.

There was that word again.

Hope.

Hope was a drink of water in a desert. Intoxicating. Necessary.

You keep going back for more and more. But even the best of things can turn toxic.

And before you know it, you’re craving something that had long since evaporated.

She’d often regarded hope as the enemy, but in Braderhelm, Winnie taught Khalani the importance of fighting for something other than herself.

That one person lighting a candle in a dark room could be the spark that made the difference.

“I have no idea if things will change.” She turned to Brock. “But if stories of me get left behind, I want the reader to know I did everything in my power to make it better.”

He chuckled lightly. “I’ll be damned. You’re a realer, too.”

“A what?”

“Realistic dreamer.” Brock leaned his shoulder against the windowsill. “You know the odds aren’t in our favor. We’ll likely perish up here. So, why keep going at this point?”

“Because we don’t know how to let go of our dreams?”

“Maybe. Or you’re too stubborn to give up on the people we left in Apollo.” His eyes flashed, and the weight of the city and the responsibilities they escaped pressed down on her.

Brock spent more time on the surface than anyone. The city that she grew up in was the same one that threw her in chains. But Apollo was still their true home.

“What are you trying to say?” She frowned. “That we’re supposed to forget Apollo and just let them die?”

“I never said that. Realistically, we probably should, but that doesn’t mean I don’t dream about saving them as well.” His voice lowered as he glanced out the sunny window.

She drew back at the unexpected softness in the Death-Zoner’s voice.

“I never pegged you for a dreamer.”

He smirked. “I’m not. Realer, remember? I have goals I push for and a far-off wish that the world will one day improve. That’s why I joined the rebels in Hermes.”

Brock paused, looking away. A sea of emotion swirled in his eyes, so different from his typical indifference that she was used to.

“But you will never find me sacrificing myself for a lost cause,” he continued. “When the transport is about to crash, I won’t be going down with it. You have to know when to give up. Especially on people.” Brock faced her, suddenly serious. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

His stare bore into her, and she had to fight not to look away.

She didn’t know how to give up on anyone except herself.

“You two are up early.” Takeshi’s voice, extra deep and rugged in the morning, sounded from behind them.

Her breath hitched. Even with his black hair slightly messy and tussled from sleep, Takeshi still looked like he’d waltzed off one of those magazines they came across in the ancient gas station.

“We were up all night. Weren’t we, Khalani?” Brock grinned, the innuendo in his voice unmistakable.

She glared at Brock, but Khalani didn’t immediately refute his words because a sadistic part of her wanted to see what would happen.

Takeshi silently appraised them, a hint of barely contained violence flashing in his pitch-black eyes. She held her breath, unsure whether round two of their unfinished brawl was about to commence, but Takeshi simply straightened, ever stoic and calm.

“Interesting. I didn’t hear any screams last night.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” she asked.

“Anyone who knows what they’re doing would make your vocal cords raw.” His dark eyes pierced hers. “Either he’s lying, or it was the most boring lay of your life.” With that, Takeshi turned his back on them and walked away. And somehow, it felt like he was the victor in an invisible battle Khalani didn’t know she was a part of.

She frowned and rubbed the corners of her eyes.

It was too early for this.

Brock snorted and followed Takeshi, but not before he glanced back over his shoulder. “Like I said, if I were you, I’d give up on some people faster.”

Her fists clenched, wanting to punch the nearest wall. Repeatedly. And knowing Brock was right made her want to direct her fists inward.

Khalani retreated to the far corner of the room and preoccupied herself with Ana’s diary.

She was unable to control the chaos or terror that slept in future daybreaks, but she could read the story of a little girl who once was alive, and commit her to memory.

No one deserved to be forgotten. That was why Winnie worked furiously to record Apollo’s history in her book.

The past reminded them of how far they’d come.

After her fifth re-read, she turned to an empty page in the diary, her fingers trembling as she reached for the dull pencil.

Wherever Ana was, Khalani prayed she wouldn’t be upset for the havoc that bled onto her pages.

The quiet yearns to be heard

Those tendrils of loss whispering in the air

Your story screaming out to be heard

Especially when there’s nobody there

The dark demands to be seen

Blank spaces that were once taken

Lives on pedestals for us to judge

Filling dreams that will no longer awaken

The mind needs to be spoken

A cacophony of words slipping off your tongue

Steady is the path for those who listen

Turmoil waits for those who retreat

The heart aches to be chosen

Forgotten feelings daring to peek through

But when your hand extends to break me

I’ll cut mine off to be free of you.