I know he’s right.

That jumble of static was most likely the sound of our school collapsing into the ocean. I imagine Dev was speaking over the school intercom. He was probably down in the security room, under the administration building. He wouldn’t have left until he was sure people were evacuating.

The drones captured no footage of anyone alive. None of the news reports mentioned survivors. Dev is really gone.

All I have left is a garbled recording of his last desperate moments.

I try to say something. I realize that if I don’t leave now, I will fall to pieces in front of everyone. I turn and exit the bridge.

I don’t remember making it to my cabin.

I curl up in my bed. I stare at the water sloshing around in Socrates’s empty tank.

I try to recapture the feeling of serenity I had in the sea, dancing with my dolphin friend. It’s gone. Guilt has clamped its metal claws on my gut.

I should have been there for Dev. Maybe if I’d been more insistent about what I saw: that strange reset of the grid’s lights…Maybe if I’d gone straight to the security team myself instead of taking time to eat breakfast…my brother might still be alive.

I never got to say good-bye to my parents. Not properly. They said they were going off on another expedition and they’d be back in a month or so. They told me to be good. I let them leave with nothing but a hug, a kiss, and a roll of my eyes. Of course I’ll be good. You guys should worry about Dev! My mom said, We’ll be back before you know it. And I believed her. They always came back.

Now I’ve lost Dev, too. Why do I keep missing my chances to say good-bye?

The pain in my gut is getting worse. It takes me a moment to realize it’s not just from grief. My period has started.

Great. Like I don’t have enough going on.

I stagger to my feet and rummage through my bag for toiletries and some clothes.

When I open the cabin door, Nelinha and Ester are both standing there. They look sheepish, like they were just debating whether or not to knock. They register my pained expression, the box of maxi-pads clutched in my hand. They get out of my way, understanding that I need to reach the bathroom.

“I’ll get the Midol,” Ester says.

“I’ll fill the hot-water bottle,” says Nelinha.

I mumble my thanks as I stumble past. They know the routine. Even with the B1 supplements, constant exercise, and a good diet, my monthly cramps are torturous. I understand why periods were historically called a “curse.” Two and a half years I’ve been dealing with this now. Without my friends, I don’t know how I would have coped.

Once I’m dressed and back in the cabin, I curl up in my bunk again. I gulp down some Midol and press the hot-water bottle against my abdomen.