Birds. The breath of a distant freeway. Leaves rustling. The pit-pat of rain has stopped. That’s how I know time passed today. The creak of cicada song is how I know I am at the house near Executioner’s Island.

My ear hurts where the lobe meets my jaw.

It happened. All of it. The return to the Colonia. Dario’s imprisonment. The wedding.

The betrayal of St. Easy.

That happened too.

I can’t wish it all away or continue to sleep through it. Behind the darkness, I’m fully conscious in a way I haven’t been. The new burst of orange behind my lids tells me it’s daytime.

I wiggle my fingers. I can move. I can isolate the heavy ache inside my left bicep where the trouble started.

Dario’s voice isn’t a garble anymore. It doesn’t sound like barking in a foreign language. It’s barking in English.

“I’ve always paid you.”

The floorboards creak outside the room.

“Yes, I called. They’re not there.”

I open my eyes. It’s our house. The one we decided would be home before we decided to move to the island together. Before we threw it all away and decided—separately—to get trapped with the Colonia.

“Then why aren’t they picking up the phone?”

I try to sit up, but the room swims. Before I fall back down, I recognize the view out the window. The lamp. The door to the bathroom. I’m relieved to be here with him. It’s over. It’s really over.

But what does that mean?

What happened to Oria? And Denise? And Massimo? The doctor. Sergio.

The room stays still, and my right arm holds me up, even as my left feels as if a spike is stuck in it.

“Just. Go. Check.” Dario makes a demand that’s undergirded with hopelessness. “That’s all. No sirens. No lights. Just ride over there in your little car and… hello? Hello?” He curses under his breath, then over it. “Fuckers.”

Visible in the hall, he taps the phone and raises it to listen, making his way into our room. He sees me sitting and stops.

He’s clean. I didn’t realize how filthy he was in the cell until he stands in our bedroom doorway, wearing pressed trousers and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned to the beginning of hair on his chest. His jaw has been shaved to the skin, and though his hair is combed, one defiant lock falls right above his eyebrow.

“You’re up.” He taps the phone and comes to me, tossing the device onto the night table as if the call he was making means nothing to him and never did.

“I am. This looked easy when I dressed it.” He inspects my ear. I can’t feel his touch there. Must be a bandage. “That knife is fucking sharp.”