The kid cowered away. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, with her head dangling between them. Every time Sophie moved closer, the girl would hide between them a bit more.

Overton put his hands on Finley’s and Bouma’s shoulders. “Give them some room,” he ordered. The three headed back to the large table, where they grabbed their meals and retreated from sight.

Sophie hardly noticed them leave. Her mind was racing; it wouldn’t stop. She replayed the events of the past week over and over. First the dead livestock and dead communication line, then the orbs, the drone. Next, there were the Marines saving her team from a sure death. And then Owen had appeared.

Two children and a handful of Marines. The only known survivors besides Luke Williard; the scientist whom she’d met years before.

None of it made sense, and yet it all made sense. Everything was connected. Like a spider’s web branching out in a thousand directions. Her dreams were the one piece of it that she just couldn’t grasp—the dreams that she should have listened to long ago.

“How is she doing?” a voice said from behind her.

Sophie angled her head. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard Luke approach.

“She’s been like this all morning. I can’t get her to say a word.”

“Typical response. After what she’s been through, it’s no surprise,” Luke said.

“I can only imagine,” Sophie said, returning her attention to the girl.

“Breakfast is on the table when you get hungry,” Luke replied, disappearing as quickly as he had emerged.

Sophie considered telling the girl that everything was going to be okay and that she would take her home, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Instead, she sat down next to her on the couch. She crossed her legs and allowed herself to relax, sinking into the soft, aged leather.

After a few minutes of silence, the little girl peered out from the safety of her knees with one eye, scanning the room before retreating back inside her fort of limbs.

Sophie stared ahead, watching the girl through her peripheral vision. It was a tactic used on patients with post-traumatic stress disorder that Holly had described to her years ago. She only vaguely remembered the conversation, but she remembered that when a patient’s shock subsided and the adrenaline cleared, they could suffer from a magnitude of different emotions. The best thing to do, Holly had explained, was simply to show a presence. To listen and provide support while the shock subsided.

As the girl slowly pulled her head out from between her knees, Sophie realized that the strategy was working.

“Where are we?” the girl asked softly. Her voice was muffled and scratchy from screaming.