I should be at home, curled up on my couch, watching some mindless show that doesn’t require participation. Mourning. Trying to forget the echoes of Dopney’s screams as the Swarm closed in on him. The noises are what haunt me the most—the waves crashing, the crowd shuffling and jeering, the dull smack of each hit as they beat him in the center of their pit. I don’t think I heard the actual blows during the attack, but now they rattle around my head, following me wherever I go.

The sounds become more visceral at night. More than once, I’ve woken drenched in sweat, having dreamt that I was the victim. The Swarm surrounds me, tightening their circle. Lip Spikes throws the first punch, knocking me sideways, and they devour me like piranhas. I’ll writhe in pain in my bed, unable to breathe, until I force my eyes open and concentrate on the photos of Hana taped to my bedroom walls. By focusing on the pictures surrounding me, I avoid succumbing to the nightmares like I did after my dad’s death.

I overheard my mom on the phone with Dr. What’s-His-Name, telling him about the prints, that I’d enlarged them and hung them like posters around my room—something I had to do when the black rock beach became too hard to visualize. Whatever his reaction—concerned, impressed—no one made me take them down.

I look at Adam, whose face is relaxed as he says, “I can’t even remember the last time we came.”

I nod. Force a smile. If it weren’t Adam’s birthday, I wouldn’t be here. Pretending.

Adam and I sit in a red vinyl booth pushed against the back corner, next to the kitchen’s constant noise and commotion. A stark contrast to our usual spot against the front windows, where we sat almost once a week this past summer. We called it our weekly Thai fix. That feels like forever ago. Another lifetime.

Outside, commuters shuffle past one another on their way home from work. Heads down, arms tucked against their bodies. They walk at a brisk pace. One man wearing a peacoat and stocking cap hugs the window. His arm scrapes against it as he passes. His head darts around like it’s tinged with panic. It’s as if the city has suddenly realized that flash attacks are a real and present threat. All it took was Dopney’s death nine days ago for people to finally pay attention. I wonder if his parents resent that. Like I do.

“Before the attack . . .”

Adam shakes his head. “Nope—that’s against the rules.”

I force another beehive of noodles into my mouth. “You nixed so many things we could talk about at dinner, the only things left are weather, religion, and politics,” I say, unable to swallow the food in my mouth. My mom would be appalled.