For too long, I have kept my daughter’s truth a secret. The fact is, she’s an othersider, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve let hate and fear control our city for far too long. The time is past, when othersiders must keep themselves secret.

I leaned forward, rested my head on his knee. He stroked my hair gently.

“I hear it’s rough out there,” he said. “Street fights.”

“It’s bad,” I said. “But things are already starting to change for the better.”

And they would continue, with Ash set to begin her formal training—in diplomacy, the intricacies of how city government functioned, in martial arts, in how to master her ability. Whatever Queen Carmen couldn’t or wouldn’t do, Ash would eventually accomplish. I was confident of that.

Niv shut his eyes. He looked exhausted. He needed rest. His body was working overtime. Connor mirrored his actions, his hero worship so obvious it made me grin.

“I should go,” I said.

“Ash wants you on her security detail with me,” he said, eyes still closed. “I want you there too.”

“That sounds wonderful, but I already have a job. Staff photographer for the Clarion.”

Niv laughed. “Yeah, I figured. But I had to try, right?” He opened his eyes. Looked straight into mine. “Where are we going to go for our first date, Solomon?”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “Good question,” I said. “Let’s think about it. We have a while to figure it out. You’ll be stuck in this tub for more than a minute.”

“I always wanted to ride on your allosaurus,” he said.

“Don’t be inappropriate,” I said.

“I didn’t mean it like—” Then he splashed water at me. Then I kissed him on the forehead. Then I kissed him on the lips.

“Shall we begin?” Cass asked, uncapping a pen.

Sixty-Nine

Ash

The last time I ever saw Solomon in the flesh was a month after I posted my photo project online.

I found him down by the river. For a week I’d been looking for him, in a haphazard and unstructured kind of way. Stopping by the train tracks or looking under the Rip Van Winkle Bridge whenever I could. I’d been too busy to mount a proper search—my application to the California Institute of the Arts; fielding anger and appreciation from the football players, some of whom were loving and some of whom were hating the fact that tons of people online had seen and commented on their faces.

Solomon sat on the rocks, his guitar on his lap. Winter was well on its way by then. He wore a lot of layers.

“Hey, mister,” I said.

“Ash,” he said. He smiled, but he looked sad.

I hugged him, and he pressed his face into my neck. “You doing okay?”

He shrugged. So, no.