I pull down the wire we’d used to hang laundry and twist it into an approximation of a ball. After tying the fabric to the wire frame I balance it in my hand, a little hollow balloon open on one end.

Figuring out how to get the hot air inside and keeping it there is more difficult. I stare at the charred embers of the fire for a while and finally I just make a small basket from the leftover wire and stuff a bit of fabric in the bottom. On top of that I pile a few embers and twigs. The entire concoction begins to smolder and spew smoke into the dome of fabric.

I hold my breath, waiting. Slowly at first and then faster and faster the balloon lifts from my hand. The breeze from the river catches it, carrying it through the night sky, and I give a whoop as excitement buzzes through my veins.

It hovers there, a bright spark in the sky like a star. A burst of light in the darkness of the City before the little flame powering it extinguishes and the entire contraption tumbles into nothingness.

Feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks—years!—I gather the unwashed blankets and carry them back down to the flat, plans for getting off the island floating through my mind.

Chapter XXXV

In the middle of the night my sister stops breathing. I grab her shoulders and shake her and scream at her that she’s not allowed to die, that she promised me she’d survive. As if obeying my command, she sputters and coughs and chokes and resumes her ragged inhalations.

But I can’t sleep again. I can’t stop staring at her chest, watching the rise and fall of it. Afraid that somehow I’m the one in charge of whether she takes her next breath and terrified that if I look anywhere else, even for a moment, she’ll slip away from me.

I pull my chair closer to the mattress, scraps of old clothes and blankets littering the floor around me. Using my sister’s quilting box, I sew the lengths of fabric together, stitching the seams as tight as I can, my movements keeping time to the pattern of her breaths.

For the millionth time I wish I were her. Not because of her smooth skin and easy life but because I’m afraid of failing her. I’d rather it be me on the bed slowly letting go of life. Because that means my sister could still hold on to hers.

When morning breaks and Catcher still hasn’t come, I know he hasn’t found a way out of this place. I know he’s not coming back anytime soon.

I know what I have to do.