“She just won’t kill Archie.” I pound my fists against his chest. “No matter how I explain to her. Not when we showed her the burn victims. Not when I told her that he was already dead, here in the future. Not even when I withheld the name of the target and let her reach her own conclusions.”

“So we keep trying.”

“We’ve been trying.” I take a deep breath and look into his face. Deep circles rim his eyes, and his always handsome face is too thin. As a doctor, he’s closer to the devastation. He visits the patients in the trauma bays every day, studying the disease in hopes of finding a cure. Witnessing that much pain, that much sorrow, day in and day out takes a toll.

My heart twinges. “I have three trips left. You and Cristela have both reached your limit, so this is it. Our last shot to save humanity.” My shoulders droop. “I hate to say it, but our chances don’t look good.”

Hope cries out, and Bandit scoops her out of the crib, cradling her as he sways back and forth, a tuneless hum on his lips. The burn that originated on her forehead has spread to her limbs and covers her entire torso.

By now, we’ve all been infected with the virus, and our only recourse is to stay underground. But the caves aren’t foolproof. Cracks form in the rock, and UV radiation seeps through. The walls of Hope’s day care were tragically compromised—and now we’re dealing with the consequences.

“She’s worse today,” I say. “She doesn’t gurgle anymore. Hasn’t smiled in a week.”

“We can’t lose faith.” He fixes his eyes on her tiny nose, her delicate but well-defined lips. “That’s all we have left.”

How can I not?

Every hour that I walk with my daughter in our cramped living quarters in an attempt to soothe the shivers that wrack her body, I die a little more. My heart gets a little harder. When the day comes that I lose her altogether, all that will be left is a blackened mass that disintegrates upon impact.

“I don’t know how I’ll keep on living when she’s gone,” I admit.

Bandit looks up sharply. “Don’t say that, Alice. You’ve lost her before, and you survived it. You can do it again.”

I frown. “What are you talking about? I’ve never lost her. She’s right here.”

He doesn’t speak. Hope has quieted, and he sets her in the crib, smoothing her sleep sack so that it lays unwrinkled beneath her. He then takes my hands solemnly, his callused palms scraping against my knuckles, and we sit cross-legged on the woven mat.

“When you travel through the black void, have you ever seen the twisted ropes of our time stream?” he asks, playing with my fingers.