“We need to get out of here now,” I say, helping Sarah limp along. We hurry down the hallway.

Bernie Kosar lumbers into view, still in bear form. He looks wounded, his entire right side smoking from blaster burns. He stares at me as if he’s trying to communicate something. I wish I had John’s animal telepathy. He seems sad, somehow. Sad, but determined.

“You okay, Bernie?” Sarah asks.

BK grunts and takes the shape of a falcon. He soars towards the window and out, flying up. He must be going to hold off the remaining Mogs on the roof while we evacuate John and Ella. I realize now what that look BK was giving me meant; he was saying good-bye, just in case it’s the last we see of him. I suck in a deep breath.

“Come on, let’s go,” I say, quietly.

There’s an overturned bookshelf blocking the doorway to Ella’s room. It’s peppered with bullet holes. Obviously this was what my dad used for cover.

“Dad?” I whisper. “It’s clear, let’s go.”

No response.

“Dad?!” I say, louder, a tremor in my voice.

Still nothing. I slam my shoulder hard against the bookshelf, but it’s wedged tight. I feel sick, desperate. Why isn’t he answering?

“Up there!” Sarah says, pointing. There’s a space large enough to crawl through between the bookshelf and the top of the doorframe. I clamber up and over, scraping my knees on the protruding shelves, landing awkwardly on the other side. It only takes seconds, but that’s time enough to imagine my dad riddled with blaster fire, John and Ella murdered in their sleep.

“Dad—?” My breath catches. It feels like time slows down. I stagger towards the bed on wobbly legs. “Dad?”

John and Ella look unharmed, and still in their comatose state, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding around them. And completely unaware that my father’s body is draped across them.

His eyes are closed. He’s bleeding from a gaping wound over his abdomen. Both of his hands are clenched there, like he’s trying to hold himself together. His spent rifle is discarded on the floor, his bloody handprints running up and down the handle. I wonder how long he kept fighting after he was shot.

Sarah gasps as she climbs over the bookshelf. “Oh no. Sam . . .”

I don’t know what to do except take his hand. It’s cold. Tears start filling my eyes. I realize that in one of the last conversations I had with my father, I basically called him a traitor. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

I almost jump out of my skin when my dad squeezes my hand.

His eyes are open. I can tell he’s having trouble focusing on me and realize that his glasses are gone, smashed somewhere during the fight.