The lights dim and a red light begins to flash as Happy’s voice comes over the speakers: “Incident on ground floor. Complete lockdown initiated. All floors to be scanned and searched.”

“I could have saved you … I could have … I …”

Somewhere, miles away, in the back of my mind, locked in a coffin buried underground, my own voice is screaming for me to get up, screaming that Tyco is still alive, Malachai is still alive, that he needs my help.

“Friend,” a soft voice says, and my eyes focus on the low pink lights of Apple-Moth.

“I could have saved him,” I tell the small companion drone. “I could have saved him.”

“You can’t save everyone, friend.”

“But he didn’t have to …”

“That was his decision. You have risked your life to save your friends. Is this correct?”

I nod, tears now falling down my face. “I can’t keep going, I’ve lost so many people already. They just keep on dying.”

“You have my permission to quit, friend, if that’s what you need. But if you need someone to tell you to get up, to keep fighting, to never give up, I can do that too.”

I wipe the tears away from my eyes, my hands still shaking, but I can breathe again, I can feel the oxygen slipping silently into my bloodstream and giving me strength.

“Tell me,” I say.

Apple-Moth’s lights grow brighter. “I believe in you, friend. Now get up.”

I push myself to standing. Shaking legs carry me past Tyco’s bed. I glance at the boy who tricked me, told me he had forgiven me, that we had to work together to survive the end of the world, and then stuck an Ebb patch to my back and planned on killing me slowly with a knife. I ignore him. Let him become one of them, I think, and try not to dwell on the shame. And as the thought flashes through my mind—Kill him now—my shame doubles, not because the thought is cruel, but because it would be merciful, and yet I don’t have it in me to end his life.

I move to Malachai’s bed as the sirens wail and Happy’s voice gives instructions.

I grab the boy—who now has one segment of light shining out at the top of each iris—and haul him off the bed.

Malachai sucks in air and then pushes it out of his lungs, screaming as he does. “Took your fucking time, Luka!” he gasps.

“Sorry,” I say, unable to think of anything else.

Suddenly, the older boy grabs me, wrapping both arms around me and holding me tight. “I love you, Luka, you’re my hero.”

“You’re mine,” I reply, my voice muffled by the skin of his bare shoulder pressed against my mouth.