Page 102 of Doomsdate

“We were kidnapped!” Everett explains for the second time, helpless in what appears to be a crushing parental embrace. “I tried to show up!”

“Tell me who!” his mother says, just as aggrieved as his father. “Who did it?! I’ll rip them to—”

“O-kay.” Gemma quickly ushers us toward the large stone building ahead. “No need to hear the rest of that particular sentiment. Mom has a very graphic imagination.”

I glance back over my shoulder, and Everett meets my eyes, looking vaguely desperate during his mother’s ongoing rant of death threats.

“Will he be okay?”

“You know, I’m starting to think he will.” Gemma gives me a small, knowing smile, then squeezes my arm. Within the monolith of Washington Hall, Gemma leads us up wide flights of stairs past sets of cadets stationed at each floor, who nod as she passes.

“This is the family floor,” Gemma explains as we finally stop at the fifth landing. “My parents’ apartment is just down the hall. Mine is that way.” She points in the other direction with a wink to Ellie, who, flustered, salutes her.

I have to say, it’s refreshing to know other awkward women.

Gemma waves the folders containing the patents. “I have a feeling these are very important, so I’m going to dive in. If you need anything, tell a cadet to contact me—I’ll be in my lab. See you for dinner.” She returns a coy little salute to Ellie, then hustles back downstairs.

“God, scientists are so hot,” Ellie murmurs, then disappears dreamily into the barracks across the hall. I close the door to my own surprisingly nice, if spare, little apartment. After the world’s craziest week, I’m finally alone. The return to solitude is almost surreal as I walk over to the small desk where some cadet has helpfully set up my ham radio. It’s too quiet in here, and as I pet one of Walter’s long vines, I wish it was Chicken’s sleek, purring head instead. But last I saw the cat, she was yowling in the middle of an Everett/colonels sandwich. I sigh, a little smile lifting my mouth. I’m glad she’s with Everett for what’s sure to be a difficult conversation with his parents.

But then, my smile falters, because I can’t put it off any longer. It’s time for my own difficult conversation.

I sink down onto the desk chair, flip the power on, and tune the dial to our frequency—the same one we’ve used for the last six years. It’s been two days since our fight. Two days since I heard Gramps’s booming laugh and the splintery scrape of his clearing throat. His concern for me.

His hurt.

And I regret it so much. Every hour that’s passed has formed a brick of guilt inside of me, building an ever-growing wall between us. The worse I feel, the harder it is to reach out. What if he’s sick? What if he doesn’t respond? What if those hurtful things I yelled at him are the last words I ever get to say to him? My first real friend. The only family I have left.

“CQ CQ CQ, Gramps, this is Maisie-girl, come in.” The words are rusty, and now I’m the one clearing my voice over and over. It doesn’t seem to help. An invisible hand grips me by the throat. “CQ CQ CQ, Gramps, please. Come in!”

Static flares, and then his voice carries over the miles between us, tinny and joyous. “Maisie-girl! Oh, Maisie, honey, I’m so glad to hear your voice!”

“Gramps!” I laugh a little as two tears squeeze out of my eyes. “I’m so glad to hear yours, too.”

“I’ve been radioing just about nonstop, honey, but I didn’t hear from you! I was so worried you were still mad, or worse, lying in a ditch somewhere, or eating that fella’s face off, or just something terrible, you don’t even know where an old man’s mind goes to when he’s worried.”

I laugh again, incredibly touched to be greeted with his love and concern instead of the anger I expected. “I’m so sorry, Gramps, for disappearing on you again.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, sweetheart. Now, how are you doing?”

“We’ve definitely had some adventures since we last talked, but our faces are still intact.”

“Adventures?” Gramps hoots into the mic. “Tell me all about ’em, sweetheart.”

And, so, I do. I tell him about seeing the ocean for the first time. I describe the way the sand felt in my toes, grainy and transformative, like if I stood there long enough it’d polish me into a pearl, too. And he asks how cold was the water, and what color was the froth. Every detail I give, he wants two more, and our conversation feels like a magician’s trick flag, unfurling square after square, always more to give, until it’s like I’m there all over again, surrounded by the memory once more, sharing it with him. I’ve never had so much to say in all my life, and I hadn’t even known I needed to say it.

But Gramps knew. And sharing every little observation I’ve had with him makes them all the more precious. He receives each one like a gift, and that, in turn, is a gift to me.

He listens.

“Oh, Maisie. I knew you were brave, honey, but you’ve gone and blown my mind. Standing at the top of the Empire State Building, looking out on all of Zombie New York? Now that’s a life-changing moment!”

I blush furiously. “Yes. It was, um. Pretty amazing.”

Instinctively, Gramps seems to know about that, too. Not the details, of course, but the feelings underpinning these adventures with Everett. How his presence illuminates every single one.

“Do you love him, sweetheart?” The words crackle and pop, fizzing from the radio straight through my insides.

“It’s crazy, but…yes. So much, Gramps. And before you say anything back, he loves me, too. And whatever our future looks like, it’s going to be together.”