My mom doesn’t force me out of bed. She doesn’t urge me to see Dr. What’s-His-Name. She brings my meals and lets me grieve. She wipes my arms and legs with a washcloth and talks about the sponge baths she gave me in the NICU. After Annie died. After Annie’s lungs collapsed and doctors couldn’t revive her. It only reminds me of what I’ve always suspected: somehow I killed her too.

With every sleep, nightmares haunt me. The attacks on Dopney. My dad. Adam. I smell their blood. Hear their bones crack. The Swarm closes in while I stand too paralyzed to save them.

One morning, I’m dreaming of something pleasant—Adam’s laugh, his wit, his perfect face. We’re sitting together on the CTA, watching something on Adam’s phone when he leans over and whispers in my ear, “You’ll never save the city with all that guilt weighing you down.”

I jerk up, flinging the blankets, sure I heard him. His voice is too real, too lifelike. I scrutinize each corner and hiding place, searching for him. He’s here. Hiding from me. Teasing me. My ear still prickles with the sound of his voice, and for several minutes, I’m insistent it wasn’t a dream. But no matter how hard I try to convince myself, my room is empty except for my bag, my hat, my scarf, and my phone, beckoning me. Screaming at me to get up.

I grab my cell. October 10. The next attack is ten days away.

As usual, Adam’s right.

I access my social media sites and post three pictures on each—one of my dad, one of Dopney, and one of Adam—to ensure they aren’t forgotten. People should see them, remember them, be haunted by them if that’s what it takes to demand justice. I shouldn’t be the only one.

Forcing myself out of bed, I shower. Dress. I follow a checklist of daily routines until I’ve built enough momentum to open the front door and leave my house with a relentless determination to finish what I started. The only difference is that it’s no longer about saving the city. This is about destroying the people who robbed me of my dad and my best friend.

I board the city bus and get off at Navy Pier. I pass the Dock Street entrance and pace the walkway, stalking tourists, until I find one I’m looking for.

Sitting on a wooden bench across from the giant Ferris wheel, I pull the sleeves of my sweater over my palms before tucking them beneath my thighs. I watch the ride, studying its mechanics. Each blue gondola takes thirteen minutes to complete one trip, three rotations around the wheel. Thirteen minutes should be all the time I need.