But at least the physical strain is almost enough to overpower the thoughts spiraling through my head, the remnants of what it felt like to press against his back and the smell of the crook of his neck and the fact that he’s barely said five words to me since he let me go.

Finally, by the time we reach the metal door barring the street, I’m ready to leave all that behind and face whatever lies outside. I have to be.

Catcher eases through the door first, and I can see around him that there’s panic in the streets. He pauses and I dash past him to the closest fire escape, jumping for the ladder that’s just out of reach. He nudges me aside and pulls it down before shoving me up it.

Around us I hear the City in uproar: people shouting and bells ringing. The wind smells like smoke, and I’m almost terrified by what I’ll see when we reach the roof and can take in the full scope of what’s going on around us.

Fetid water trails down my legs with each rung I climb, and I’m pretty sure it’s dripping on Catcher as he follows me up to the landing. I pause to readjust my grip on the machete and start up the stairs before Catcher pushes me aside, taking the lead.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” I snap at his back as I follow him up, our steps reverberating through the rusty metal stairs.

His shoulders tighten in response but he keeps going. At the top he hesitates, peering over a once-elaborate but now-broken stone cornice circling the building. “It’s clear,” he says, struggling only slightly this time as he uses both his arms to haul himself up and over onto the roof.

I follow, landing beside him with a squelch as water leaches from my shoes. That’s when I get a clear view of the Dark City around us and the Neverlands beyond. Or rather, what’s left of them.

At night when I couldn’t sleep I used to imagine what this city was like before the Return. There are a few artifacts left over from the before time. The Protectorate once used an old building as a museum of sorts, as if seeing what life was like before would be an incentive for us to work harder toward a similar future.

One year for my birthday Elias gave me a pass to the museum. I remember taking care the night before to wash my hair and braid it so that it would frizz around my head like a golden crown when I awoke and unwound it. I was nervous going into the museum—I was alone since Elias wasn’t going to spend the credits for two tickets, and I remember tugging the ends of my hair while I waited in line.

I still believed in the Protectorate back then. Believed what they told us about what was best for us and our way of life. Recruiters stood at the doors to the building, their black uniforms so clean and crisp against the grime of the City. This was well before the Rebellion so they were our regal protectors then—respected and trusted.